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,^v<. -^vf W 







PRISONERS 
£5^ CAPTIVES 


Henry Seton Merriman 


Author ofTh.Q Sowers; In Kedar’s 
Tents, Roden’s Corner, etc. 
7 ^ 





Nfto ^or6, DODD, MEAD 
AND C O M P A N Y, I 8.9 9 


24 . 2 , 





45221 

Revised and authorized edition 
Copyright 1899 
by 

Dodd, Mead & Company 
TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 





Preface 


“ Prisoners and Captives ” is an early and im- 
mature attempt which has at some trouble and 
expense been withdrawn from circulation in 
England. Seeing that under existing copyright 
law the book is unprotected in the United States 
from the unauthorized enterprise of certain pub- 
lishers, the author finds himself practically forced 
to issue an edition of this and other early works. 
He does this in full consciousness of a hundred 
defects which the most careful revision cannot 
eliminate. The book has been corrected by the 
author, who now submits it to the generosity of 
the critic and the good sense of the reader with 
the assurance that had he been in a position to 
choose he would not have sought this indulgence. 

Henry Seton Merriman. 


iii 


i 





CHAPTER 

Contents 

PAGE 

I. 

Dead Waters 

. . I 

II. 

Against Orders . 

14 

III. 

Home , . . . 

. 22 

IV. 

In Brook Street 

32 

V. 

A Reunion 

. 40 

VI. 

Doubts 

54 

VII. 

The ‘"Argo” . 

. 65 

VIII. 

In the City 

. . 78 

IX. 

Seven Men 

. 91 

X. 

Misgivings . 

104 

XI. 

On the Track 

. . 1 12 

XII. 

Carte and Tierce 

. II9 

XIII. 

A Meeting 

. 132 

XIV. 

The Last Meeting 

. 143 

XV. 

A Sermon 

.154 

XVI. 

Miss Winter Diverges 

. . 161 

XVII. 

Greek and Greek . 

. I7I 

XVIII. 

Easton’s Box 

. . 180 

XIX. 

A Late Call . 

. 194 

XX. 

From Afar . 

. . 202 

XXL 

Trapped .... 

. . 209 


V 


vi 

CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

XXII. 

Easton Takes Counsel 

. 218 

XXIII. 

The Eleventh of March . 

230 

XXIV. 

A Horrible Task 

. 241 

XXV. 

On the Neva . 

. 251 

XXVI. 

They Tried It . . . 

. 258 

XXVII. 

Three Years After . 

. 270 

XXVIII. 

Salvage .... 

. 279 


Prisoners and Captives 


CHAPTER 1 

DEAD WATERS 

The march of civilization has turned its steps 
aside from certain portions of the world. Day 
by day some southern waters find themselves 
more and more forsaken. The South Atlantic, 
the high-road of the world at one time, is now a 
by-lane. 

One afternoon, some years ago, the copper- 
bright rays of a cruel sun burnt the surface of the 
ocean. The stillness of the atmosphere was 
phenomenal, even in the latitudes where a great 
calm reigns from month to month. It is almost 
impossible to present to northern eyes this picture 
of a southern sea gleaming beneath a sun which 
had known no cloud for weeks; impossible to 
portray the brilliant monotony of it all with any 
degree of reality to the imagination of those who 
only know our white-flecked heavens. Those 
who live up north in the cool “fifties” can , 
scarcely realize the state of an atmosphere where 


I 


2 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


the sun rises day by day, week in week out, un- 
clouded from the straight horizon; sails right 
overhead, and at last sinks westward undimmed 
by thinnest vapour. Month after month, year 
after year, ay! century after century, this day’s 
work is performed. The scorching orb of light 
rises at the same monotonous hour and sets, just 
as he did when this world was one vast ocean, 
with but one ship sailing on it. 

From the dark mysterious depths of the ocean 
wavering ripples, mounting in radiation to the 
surface, broke at times the blue uniformity of its 
bosom. Occasionally a delicate nautilus drifted 
along before some unappreciable breath, presently 
to fold its sails and disappear. Long trailers of 
seaweed floating idly almost seemed to be en- 
dowed with a sinuous life and movement. 

No bird in the air, no fish in the sea! Nothing 
to break the awful silence! A wreck might float 
and drift, here or there, upon these aimless 
waters for years together and never be found. 

But Chance, the fickle, ruled that two vessels 
should break the monotony of sea and sky on 
this particular afternoon. One, a mighty struct- 
ure, with tall tapering masts, perfect in itself, an 
ideal merchantman. The other, small, of ex- 
quisite yacht-like form, and with every outward 
sign of a great speed obtainable. 

There was obviously something amiss with the 
larger vessel. Instead of white sails aloft on 
every spar, bare poles and slack ropes stood 


DEAD WATERS 


3 


nakedly against the blue ether. In a region of 
calms and light winds the merchantman had only 
her topsails set. 

In contrast the other carried every foot of can- 
vas. Carried it literally; for the white cloth hung 
mostly idle, only at times flapping softly to a 
breath of air that was not felt on deck. Even 
this was sufficient to move the little vessel 
through the water, which rippled past her cop- 
per-sheathed bows in long unctuous streamers. 
With her tremendous spread of canvas the mer- 
chantman might perhaps have made a little 
weigh, but under heavy topsails she lay like a 
log. Since dawn the smaller vessel had been 
steadily, though very slowly, decreasing the dis- 
tance between them, and now there were signs 
of activity on her deck, as though a boat were 
about to be lowered. Across the silent waters 
trilled the call of a boatswain’s whistle, but this 
confirmation would have been unnecessary to the 
veriest tyro in nautical matters. The vessel was 
plainly a man-of-war. As a matter of fact, she 
was one of the quick-sailing schooners built and 
designed by the British Government for the sup- 
pression of slave-trade on the West Coast of 
Africa. 

Every knob of brass gleamed in the sun, every 
inch of deck was holystoned as white as milk. 
Aloft no rope was frayed, no seizing adrift. It 
was easy to see that this trim vessel carried a 
large crew under strict discipline; and in that 


4 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


monotonous life the very discipline must itself 
have been a relief. 

And now the melodious song of sailors haul- 
ing together, floated through the glittering air to 
the great vessel of the dead No answering cry 
was heard — no expectant faces peered over the 
black bulwarks. The signal flags, “Do you 
want help?” hung unnoticed, unanswered, from 
the mast of the little vessel. The scene was sug- 
gestive of that fable telling of a mouse proffering 
aid to a lion. The huge still merchantman could 
have taken the slave-catcher upon its broad 
decks. 

Presently a boat left the smaller vessel and 
skimmed over the water, impelled by sharp reg- 
ular strokes. The sound of the oars alone broke 
the silence of nature. 

In the stern of the boat sat a square-shouldered 
little man, whose brown face and glistening 
chestnut beard, close-cropped to a point, were 
pleasantly suggestive of cleanly English refine- 
ment, combined with a readiness of resource and 
a cheery equanimity which are learnt more readily 
on British decks than elsewhere. His pleasant 
eyes were scarcely hazel, and yet could not be 
described as gray, because the two colours were 
mixed. 

As the boat approached the great merchant- 
man, this officer formed his two hands into a 
circle and raised his practised voice. 

“Ahoy — there! ” 


DEAD WATERS 


5 


There was no reply, and a moment or two 
later the small boat swung in beneath the high 
bulwarks. There was a rope hanging almost to 
the water, and after testing its powers, with a 
quick jerk the young fellow scrambled up the 
ship’s side like a monkey. Three of the boat’s 
crew prepared to follow him. 

He sat for a moment balanced on the blistered 
rail, and then leaped lightly down on to the 
deck. This was of a light green, for moss had 
grown there in wet weather only to be parched 
by a subsequent sun. Between the planks the 
pitch had oozed up and glistened like jet, in some 
places the seasoned wood had warped. 

He stood for a moment alone amidst the tan- 
gled ropes, and there were beads of perspiration 
on his brown forehead. It is no pleasant duty 
to board a derelict ship, for somewhere or other 
there will probably be an unpleasant sight, such 
as is remembered through the remainder of the 
beholder’s life. 

There was something crude and hard in the 
entire picture — a cynical contrast, such as a 
Frenchman loves to put upon his canvas. In the 
merciless, almost shadowless, light of a midday 
sun every detail stood out in hard outline. The 
perfect ship, with its forlorn, bedraggled deck; 
the clean spars towering up into the heavens, 
with their loose cordage, their clumsily-furled 
sails; and upon the moss-grown deck this 
square-shouldered little officer — trim, seaman- 


6 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


like, prompt amidst the universal slackness — the 
sun gleaming on his white cap and gilt buttons. 

While he stood for a moment hesitating, he 
heard a strange, unknown sound. It was more 
like the rattle in a choking man’s throat than 
anything else that he could think of. He turned 
quickly, and stood gazing upon the saddest sight 
he had yet seen in all his life. Over the tangled 
ropes the gaunt figure of a white dog was creep- 
ing toward him. This poor dumb brute was 
most piteous and heartrending; for the very 
dumbness of its tongue endowed its bloodshot 
staring eyes with a heaven-born eloquence. 

As it approached there came from its throat a 
repetition of the sickening crackle. The young 
officer stooped over it with kindly word and 
caress. Then, and then only, did he realize that 
the black and shrivelled object hanging from its 
open lips was naught else but the poor brute’s 
tongue. This was more like a piece of dried-up 
leather than living flesh. 

Water! ” said the officer quickly to the man 
climbing over the rail behind him. 

Some moments elapsed before the small beaker 
was handed up from the boat, and during these 
the officer moistened his finger at his own lips, 
touching the dog’s tongue tenderly and skilfully. 

“Look after the poor brute,” he said to the 
man, who at length brought the water. “ Don’t 
give him too much at first.” 

A slight feeling of relief had come over them 


DEAD WATERS 


7 


all. For some reason, they concluded, the vessel 
had been abandoned, and in the hurry of depar- 
ture the dog had been left behind. 

With a lighter step he walked aft, and climbed 
the brass-bound companion-ladder leading to the 
raised poop, while two of the boat’s crew fol- 
lowed upon his heels. 

Upon the upper deck he stopped suddenly, 
and the colour left his lips. His face was so 
sunburnt that no other change was possible. 
Thus the three men stood in silence. There, at 
the wheel, upon an ordinary kitchen-chair, sat a 
man. His two hands clutched the brass-bound 
spokes; his head lay prone upon his arms. A 
large Panama hat completely hid his features, 
and the wide graceful brim touched his bent 
shoulders. 

As the stately vessel slowly rocked upon the 
glassy sweep of rolling wave — the echo of some 
far-off storm in other waters — the great wheel 
jerked from side to side, swaying the man’s body 
with it. From one muscular arm the shirt-sleeve 
had fallen back, displaying sinews like cords be- 
neath the skin. Here was Death steering a dead 
ship through lifeless waters. 

And yet in the dramatic picture there was a 
strange sense of purpose. The man was lashed 
to the chair. If life had left him, this lonely 
mariner had at least fought a good fight. Be- 
neath the old Panama hat an unusual brain had 
at one time throbbed and planned and conceived 


8 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


a purpose. This was visible in the very simplic- 
ity of his environments, for he was at least 
comfortable. Some biscuits lay upon the grat- 
ing beside him — there was bunting on the seat 
and back of the chair — while the rope loosely 
knotted round his person seemed to indicate that 
sleep, and perhaps death, had been provided for 
and foreseen. 

Gently and with excusable hesitation the Eng- 
lish naval officer raised the brim of the large hat 
and displayed the face of a living man. There 
could be no doubt about it. The strong British 
face bore the signs of perfect health — the brown 
hair and closely-cropped beard were glossy with 
life. 

"‘He’s asleep! ” whispered one of the sailors — 
a young man who had not known discipline 
long. 

This statement, if informal, was at least cor- 
rect; for the steersman of the great vessel was 
peacefully slumbering, alone on an abandoned 
ocean, beneath the blaze of an equatorial sun. 

“Hulloa, my man! Wake up! ” called out the 
young officer, clapping the sleeper on the back. 

The effect was instantaneous. The sleeper 
opened his eyes and rose to his feet simultane- 
ously, releasing himself from the rope which was 
hitched over the back of his chair. Despite 
ragged shirt and trousers, despite the old Panama 
hat with its limp brim, despite bare feet and tarry 
hands, there was something about this sailor 


DEAD WATERS 


9 


which placed him on a par — not with the able- 
seamen standing open-mouthed before him — 
but with the officer. 

This sailor’s action was perfectly spontaneous 
and natural as he faced the officer. It was an 
unconscious assertion of social equality. 

“An English officer!” he exclaimed, holding 
out his hand. “lam glad.” 

The small man nodded his head without speak- 
ing, but he grasped the brown hand somewhat 
ceremoniously. The form of greeting was also 
extended to the two seamen by the ragged sailor. 

“Are you in command of this vessel?” in- 
quired Lieutenant Grace, looking round critically. 

“I am — at present. I shipped as second mate, 
but have now the honour of being captain . . . 

crew . . . and . . . bottle-washer.” 

The men moved away looking about them 
curiously. The younger made for the deck- 
house, seeking the companion-way below. 

“Halloa!” exclaimed the solitary mariner, 
“where are your men going to? Hold hard 
there, you fellows! Let me go down first.” 

The stoutly-built little officer held up a warn- 
ing hand to his men, which had the effect of 
stopping abruptly their investigations. Then he 
turned and looked keenly into his companion’s 
face. The glance was returned with the calm 
speculation of a man who had not yet found his 
moral match. 

“Yellow fever?” interrogated Grace. 


10 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“Yellow fever,” answered the other, with a 
short nod. 

“I ain’t afeerd of Yellow Jack! ’’said one of 
the seamen who had approached. 

“That I can quite well believe, but it is useless 
to run an unnecessary risk. I will go first.” 

Suiting the action to the word, he led the way, 
and the young officer followed closely. The lat- 
ter was vaguely conscious of a certain strain in 
this man’s manner, as if his nerves were at an 
undue tension. His eyes were those of a person 
overwrought in mind or body, and Lieutenant 
Grace watched him very keenly. 

At the head of the companion-ladder the sailor 
stopped. 

“What is to-day?” he inquired, abruptly. 

“Thursday.” 

“Ah!” 

They were standing close together, and the 
short man looked up uneasily into his compan- 
ion’s face. 

“ Why do you inquire ? ” he said, gently. 

“It was Tuesday when I lashed myself to that 
chair. I must have been sleeping forty-eight 
hours.” 

“And you have had no food since then ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I really cannot tell you. I re- 
member taking the wheel at midday on Tuesday; 
since then I don’t exactly know what I have 
done.” 

The little officer had a peculiar way of looking 


DEAD WATERS 


1 1 

at persons who were addressing him. It gave 
one the impression that he was searching for a 
fuller meaning in the eyes than that vouchsafed 
by the tongue alone. 

He made no reply, but stepping closer to his 
companion he placed his arm around him. 

“You are a little overdone,” he said. “I 
imagine you have been too long without food. 
Just sit down on these steps and I will get you 
something.” 

The other man smiled in a peculiar way and 
put the proffered arm aside in such a manner as 
to remove any suspicion of ridicule at the idea of 
aid coming from such a quarter. 

“ Oh no,” he answered, “lam all right. It is 
just a little giddiness — the effect of this hot sun, 
no doubt. There is some brandy down below. 
I am a great believer in brandy.” 

He had descended the brass-bound steps, and 
as he spoke the last words he led the way into 
the saloon. A sail had been cast over the open 
skylight, so that the full glare of day failed to 
penetrate into the roomy cabin. Upon the oil- 
cloth-covered table lay a rolled sheet of brown 
paper in the rough form of a torch, and beside it 
a box of matches. 

“I burn brown paper,” said the sailor, quietly, 
as he struck a light and ignited the paper — “it is 
the only disinfectant I have left.” 

“ Bv God — you need it! ” exclaimed the officer 
in his handkerchief. 


12 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


In the meantime the other had advanced farther 
into the cabin. Upon the floor, beyond the table, 
with their heads resting upon the hatch of the 
lazarette, lay tv/o men whose forms were dis- 
tinguishable beneath the dusky sheets cast over 
them. 

“Those are the last of nineteen," said the 
ragged man, waving aside the acrid smoke. 
“I have buried seventeen myself — and nursed 
nineteen. That is the steward, this the first 
mate. They quarrelled when they were . . . 
alive. It seems to be made up now . . . 
eh ? I did my best, but the more I got to know 
of yellow fever the greater was my respect for 
it. I nursed them to the best of my knowledge, 
and then I . . . played parson." 

He pointed to an open Bible lying on the floor, 
and a ghastly grin flickered across his face. 

The little officer was watching him with that 
peculiar and continuous scrutiny which has al- 
ready been noticed. He barely glanced at the 
Bible or at the still forms beneath the unwashed 
sheet. All his attention was concentrated upon 
the survivor. 

“And now," he said, deliberately, “if you 
will kindly go on board the Foam, I shall take 
charge of this ship." 

“Eh?" 

They stood looking at each other. It is rather 
a difficult task for a small man to look up into a 
face that is considerably above him, with a con- 


DEAD WATERS 


13 


tinued dignity, but this square-shouldered repre- 
sentative of British Majesty accomplished it with 
undoubted success. 

“ I take command of the ship,” he said, sooth- 
ingly ; “ you are only fit for the sick-list.” 

Across the long and sunken face there gleamed 
again an unpleasant smile — a mere contraction of 
the features, for the eyes remained terribly sol- 
emn. Then he looked round the cabin in a 
dreamy way and moved toward the base of the 
mizzen-mast. 

“I have navigated her almost single-handed 
for a fortnight,” he said; “ I am . . . glad 

you came.” 

Then the officer led him away from the cabin. 


CHAPTER II 


AGAINST ORDERS 

This is no seafaring record. The good ship 
Martial has been introduced here because her deck 
was the meeting-place of two men, whose lives 
having hitherto been cast in very different places, 
drifted at last together upon the broad waters in 
precisely the same aimless, incomprehensible way 
that the two vessels found each other upon the 
breathless ocean. 

From the moment that the ragged steersman 
opened his mournful gray eyes and looked upon 
the sunburnt face of Lieutenant Grace, he had 
felt himself insensibly drawn toward his rescuer. 
This feeling was not the mere sense of grati- 
tude which was naturally awakened, but some- 
thing stronger. It was almost a conviction that 
this chance meeting on the deck of a fever- 
stricken ship was something more than an in- 
cident. It was a beginning — the beginning of a 
new influence upon his life. 

When Grace laid his sunburnt hand upon the 
sleeper's shoulder he had felt pleasantly conscious 
of a contact which had further import than mere 
warm flannel and living muscle. It was dis- 
tinctly sympathetic in its influence, for there is 
14 


AGAINST ORDERS 


15 

a meaning in touch. All hands are not the same 
within the grasp of our fingers. 

As the two men emerged on deck the olficer 
turned toward his companion. 

'‘In another hour,” he said, “that small dog 
would have been dead.” 

“Ah! you’ve saved him exclaimed the other, 
with a sudden change of manner — a change 
which the first speaker had in some degree ex- 
pected. They were beginning to understand 
each other, these two, for sailors soon read the 
hearts of men; and it will be generally found 
that he who loves a dog is the first to discover a 
similar love in the heart of another. 

“Yes! He will recover. I know dogs.” 

“ He’s had no water since Tuesday.” 

“He looked rather like it. Tell me — do you 
feel better?” 

“ Yes; thanks,” replied the bigger man. 

“Come, then. We will go on board my ship 
and report to the old man, while you get a meal 
— some soup I should think will be best. You 
will have to be careful.” 

He led the way aft, toward the rail where the 
men, having found a rope-ladder, were lower- 
ing it over the side. Before reaching them he 
turned. 

“ By the way,” he said, quietly, “ what is your 
name ? ” 

“Tyars — Claud Tyars.” 

“ Claud Tyars,” repeated the little officer, mus- 


i6 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


ingly, as if searching in his mind for some recol- 
lection. “There was a Tyars in the Cambridge 
boat two years ago — a Trinity man.” 

“ Yes — there was.” 

Lieutenant Grace looked up. 

“You are the man ?” 

“lam the man.” 

With a little nod the young officer continued 
his way. They did not speak again until they 
were seated in the gig on the way toward the 
Foam. 

“I had a cousin,” the officer remarked then in 
a cheerfully conversational manner, “at Cam- 
bridge. He would be a contemporary of yours. 
My name is Grace.” 

The rescued man acknowledged this introduc- 
tion with a grave nod. 

“I remember him well,” he replied. “A great 
mathematician.” 

“ I believe he was,” answered Grace. He was 
looking toward his ship, which was now near at 
hand. The crew were grouped amidships, peer- 
ing over the rail, while a tall old man on the 
quarter-deck, stopping in his meditative prome- 
nade occasionally, watched their approach with 
the aid of a pair of marine glasses. 

“The skipper is on the lookout for us,” con- 
tinued the young officer in a low tone of voice 
requiring no reply. 

“A slaver?” inquired Tyars, following the 
direction of his companion’s eyes. 


AGAINST ORDERS 


17 

“Yes; a slaver, and the quickest ship upon 
the coast.” 

Propelled by strong and willing arms the boat 
soon reached the yacht-like vessel, and in a few 
minutes Claud Tyars was repeating his story to 
her captain — a genial, white-haired, red-faced old 
sailor. 

Lieutenant Grace was present, and certain en- 
tries were made in the log-book. The two serv- 
ants of her Majesty were prompt and business- 
like in their questions. Tyars had taken the 
precaution of bringing the log-book of the Mar- 
tial, in which the deaths of the whole crew 
excepting himself were faithfully recorded. The 
proceedings were ship-shape and business-like, 
but as the story progressed the old commander 
became more and more interested, to the detri- 
ment of his official punctilio. When at last 
Tyars finished his narrative with the words — 

“And this afternoon Lieutenant Grace found 
me asleep on the wheel,” the old sailor leant for- 
ward across the little cabin-table, and extended 
an unsteady, curved hand. 

“Your hand, sir. I should like to take by the 
hand a man with such a record as yours. You 
have done a wonderful thing in navigating that 
ship almost single-handed as far as this.” 

Tyars took the proffered hand, smiling his 
slow, unconsciously mournful smile. 

“But,” he said, calmly ignoring the interroga- 
tion of the old man’s glance, “you must not give 


i8 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


me the whole credit. There are other records as 
good as mine, but they are finished, and so the 
interest suffers. Some of the men behaved splen- 
didly. One poor fellow actually dropped dead 
at the wheel, refusing to go below until it was 
too late. He knew it was hopeless, but he took 
a sort of pride in dying with his fingers round 
the spokes. There was only one coward on 
board, and I am glad to say he was not an Eng- 
lishman.” 

“Now, what was he.^” asked the old sailor, 
who, being of a school almost extinct to-day, 
upheld the Anglo-Saxon race far above all other 
nations. 

“That is hardly a fair question,” interposed 
the more modern first officer. 

“A German,” answered Tyars, shortly. 

Then the young surgeon of the Foam appeared 
and took charge of his second patient; for the 
terrier had, by Tyars’ request, been attended to 
first. 

In the quiet days that followed, the rescued 
man and his dog recovered from the effects of 
their hardship with wonderful rapidity. 

Claud Tyars regained his energy, and with the 
return of it came that restlessness which charac- 
terized his daily way of life. He wished to be 
up and doing, holding idleness as an abomina- 
tion as soon as its necessity became questionable. 
A few men had been put on board the merchant- 
man with instructions to keep near their own 


AGAINST ORDERS 


19 


ship under all circumstances, and in consort the 
vessels were creeping slowly through the placid 
waters toward the north. 

It happened that Lieutenant Grace was soon to 
leave the slaver on a long leave of absence, and 
he was therefore selected to go on board the 
Martial, with Tyars as joint commander, and a 
few men (for many could not be spared), with a 
view to sailing for Madeira, where the crew 
could be strengthened. 

At last the doctor announced that the rescued 
man was perfectly strong again, and that the 
fever-stricken ship was to the best of his knowl- 
edge purified and disinfected. 

For the first time since her departure from 
South America the Martial's sails were all 
shaken out, and beneath a cloud of snowy can- 
vas she moved away on her stately progress 
northward; while the little slave-catcher re- 
turned to the cursed coast which required so 
close a watch. 

One cannot go so far as to say that the sea- 
manship displayed on board the merchantman 
was good, but at all events it was bold. An 
older navigator would, without hesitation, have 
accused the young captain and his blue-coated 
first officer of utter recklessness. Tyars held a 
master’s certificate, and by right of seniority suc- 
ceeded to the command of the Martial, vice cap- 
tain and first mate dead and buried. In Lieuten- 
ant Grace he found a coadjutor of sympathetic 


20 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


metal. Energetic, alert, and bold, he ruled the 
deck with cheery despotism, and went below for 
rest with the comforting conviction that Grace 
would never shorten sail from nervousness. 

The vessel was ludicrously under-manned, and 
yet these two commanders carried on night and 
day, with no thought of taking in sail for safety’s 
sake. The division of this mighty crew of ten 
into watches was in itself a farce, for it resulted 
in a sum-total of three able seamen to handle sails 
sufficient to employ four or five times their num- 
ber. 

There was no steward, no carpenter, no sail- 
maker on board. But sail-maker’s and carpen- 
ter’s work were alike allowed abeyance, while 
each watch cooked for itself. At first the 
straight-laced blue-jackets failed to enter into 
the spirit of the thing, and could not quite 
shake off their naval habit of awaiting orders. 
This, however, gave way in time to a joyous 
sense of freedom and adventure. 

The question before this little band of men 
was the safe conduct of a valuable ship and 
cargo home to England, and this they one and 
all came to look upon in time with that breadth 
of view which the circumstances required. Man- 
of-war trimness was out of the question — car- 
penter there was none, so paints could not be 
mixed, nor decks calked, nor woodwork re- 
paired. There was no sail-maker, so things 
must perforce be allowed to go a little ragged. 


AGAINST ORDERS 


21 


After a long consultation with Grace, Tyars 
had called together his little crew round the 
wheel, and there delivered to them a short ha- 
rangue. The result of this and a few words from 
the lieutenant was that the island of Madeira was 
enthusiastically shelved. There were to be no 
half measures on board the Martial. They 
would take the ship home, if there was no 
watch below for any of them. 

This programme was ultimately carried out to 
the letter. With the aid of good fortune a safe 
and rapid passage was performed, though, in- 
deed, there was not too much sleep for any on 
board. 

And during the voyage home Lieutenant Grace 
had studied his companion with a slow compre- 
hensive scrutiny, such as sailors exercise. The 
two commanders had not been thrown much to- 
gether, by reason of their duties being separate; 
but it was not to this fact alone that the naval 
officer attributed his failure to make anything of 
Claud Tyars. He had found this ex-wrangler 
calmly installed in the humble post of second 
mate to a merchant sailing-ship. Moreover, 
there was no attempt to conceal an identity 
which was, to say the least of it, strange. Tyars 
appeared in no way conscious of an unanswered 
question existing in his intercourse with the 
naval officer, and there was no suspicion of em- 
barrassment such as might arise from anomaly. 


CHAPTER III 


HOME 

Things were in this state between the two 
young men when on one morning in June the 
Martial dropped anchor at Gravesend to await 
the tide. The news of her tardy arrival had been 
telegraphed from the coast, and the Channel 
pilot, on landing at Deal, had thought fit to com- 
municate to a friend in the journalistic interest a 
somewhat sensational account of the wonderful 
voyage. 

It thus happened that before the anchor was 
well home in its native mud a stout gentleman 
came alongside in a wherry and climbed on deck 
with some alacrity. His lips were a trifle white 
and unsteady as he recognized Tyars, and came 
toward him with a fat gloved hand outstretched. 

“Mr. Tyars,” he said, breathlessly; “you 
don’t remember me, perhaps. I am George 
Lowell, the owner. 1 have ten riggers coming 
on board to start unbending sail at once. 1 have 
to thank you in the name of the merchants and 
of myself for your plucky conduct, and you too 
sir, as well as these men.” 

So the voyage was accomplished, and Grace 
recognized the fact that the time had arrived for 


22 


HOME 


23 


him to withdraw his eight blue-jackets. Their 
strange duties were at an end, and one more lit- 
tle tale of bravery had been added to England’s 
great roll. 

He gave the word to his men and went below 
to get together his few belongings. As first of- 
ficer, pro tempore, he had navigated the ship, 
and for some minutes he leant over the plain 
deal table in his diminutive stateroom with his 
elbows upon the outspread chart. 

Across the great spread of ocean was a dotted 
line, but in the marks there was a difference, for 
three navigators had worked out the one voyage. 
As his eyes followed the line, day by day, hour 
by hour, in vivid retrospection back to the still 
hot regions near the equator, the young fellow 
realized that the voyage had been something 
more than a mere incident in his life. The rest- 
less days and sleepless nights had been very 
pleasant in their sense of satisfactory toil; the 
very contrast of having too much to do instead 
of too little was pleasurable. But above all, there 
was the companionship and friendship of a man 
who interested him more than any he had yet 
come in contact with. In all these days and 
nights this companionship was subtly interlaced, 
casting its influence over all. And now as he 
stood in the little dimly-lighted cabin, listening 
vaguely to the footsteps on deck overhead, he 
was wondering how it was that he still knew so 
little of Claud Tyars; speculating still, as he had 


24 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


speculated weeks before in vain, why this edu- 
cated gentleman had taken up the rough life of a 
merchant sailor. 

Looking back over the days and nights they 
had passed through together, he realized how 
little leisure there had been for mere conversa- 
tion. In the working of the ship, in the attempt 
to enable ten men to do the work of twenty, 
there had been sufficient to keep them fully en- 
gaged without leaving time for personal matters. 
But it is in such a life as this, lived together, that 
men really learn to know each other, and not in 
the mere interchange of thought, or give and 
take of question and answer. 

Lieutenant Grace was in his small way a stu- 
dent of human nature. Men who watch the sea 
and sky, to gather from their changes the deeper 
secrets of wind and weather, acquire a habit of 
watching lips and eyes, gathering therefrom 
little hints, small revelations, tiny evidences 
which when pieced together make that strange 
incongruous muddle called Man. Of the human 
being Claud Tyars he knew a good deal — of the 
gentleman, the travelled sportsman, he knew ab- 
solutely nothing. Beyond the bare fact that 
Trinity College had left its ineffaceable mark 
upon him, the past history of this sailor was a 
blank to Grace. The character was there in all 
its self-reliant, independent strength, but of its 
foundation the little naval philosopher would fain 
have learnt more. 


HOME 


25 


Grace, on the other hand, had spoken frankly 
enough of his family, his prospects and inten- 
tions, during such limited intercourse as their 
duties had allowed them. There had been no 
question of a different social status between the 
two men thus strangely thrown together, and 
Tyars had accepted his companion’s recognition 
of equality without comment or remark. Of his 
former companions he spoke with kindness and 
some admiration, both totally devoid of patron- 
age. Altogether he treated the question of his 
peculiar position with an aggravating noncha- 
lance. 

When Grace went on deck a little later, leaving 
his baggage to be brought up by one of the blue- 
jackets, this thought was still uppermost in his 
mind. He found Tyars and Mr. Lowell walking 
together on the after-deck; the former talking 
earnestly, while the owner of the ship listened 
with pained eyes. They came toward Grace to- 
gether, and he told them of his intention to take 
his men up to London by train at once in order to 
report themselves at the Admiralty. 

There were boats alongside — the riggers were 
on board, indeed they were already at work 
aloft, and there was no cause for further delay. 
He turned away with visible reluctance, and 
went forward to call his men together. Mr. 
Lowell followed and shook hands gratefully, after 
which he went aft to speak to the pilot, who was 
sitting upon the wheel-grating reading a news- 


26 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


paper. Thus Grace and Tyars were left alone 
amidships, for the men were busy throwing their 
effects into the boats. 

“T hope,” said Tyars, “ that you will not get 
into a row for coming straight home without 
calling at Madeira on the chance of picking up 
more men.” 

“ I don’t anticipate any dilficulty,” was the re- 
ply; “my uncle has the pulling of a few of the 
strings, you know.” 

Tyars nodded his head. There was nothing 
more to be said. The men were already clam- 
bering down the ship’s side, eager to get ashore. 

“Good-bye,” said Grace, holding out his hand. 
“ I — eh — I’m glad we got her home.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

They shook hands, and Tyars stood still upon 
the deck he had trodden so long, while the little 
officer moved away toward the gangway. 
Somehow there was a sense of insufficiency on 
both sides. There was something left unsaid, 
and yet neither could think of anything to say. 

Grace had not gone many yards when he 
stopped, hesitated, and finally returned. 

“ I say, Tyars,” he said, hurriedly, “is this go- 
ing to be the end of it all ? I don’t think we 
ought to lose sight of each other.” 

“No; I don’t think we ought.” 

Still he seemed to have nothing to suggest — no 
common haunt to hold up as a likely meeting- 
place such as men bound by many social or 


HOME 


27 

household ties shield themselves behind when 
friendship becomes exacting. 

A more sensitive man than the young officer 
would at once have felt rebuffed, but Grace, in 
his genial honesty, had no such thought. Per- 
haps, indeed, he searched deeper into the man’s 
silence with his steady gaze, and discovered the 
presence of some other motive than unsociability. 

“Then,” he said, “ will you come up and see us 
in town. The gov’nor would like to make your 
acquaintance. Come and dine — yes, that is best, 
come and dine — to-morrow evening. Number 
one hundred and five Brook Street, Grosvenor 
Square. You won’t forget the address ?” 

“Thanks; 1 shall be most happy. What time 
do you dine?” 

“ Well, 1 don’t know. 1 have been away from 
home four years; but come at seven.” 

“ Seven o’clock; number one hundred and five 
Brook Street. Thanks.” 

They had reached the gangway, and Grace 
now turned with a little nod of acknowledg- 
ment, and began making his way down the un- 
steady steps into the boat awaiting him. Tyars 
stood on the grating, with one hand resting on 
the rail of the ship, the other in his jacket-pocket. 

At seven o’clock that night the Martial found 
rest at last, moored safely alongside the quay in 
the East India Dock. There was a little crowd of 
idlers upon the pier and on the gates of the tidal 
basin, for the fame of the ship had spread. But 


28 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


more eyes were directed toward the man who 
had done this deed of prowess, for the human 
interest is, after all, paramount in things in which 
we busy our minds. For one who looked at the 
ship, there were ten of those mariners, dock-la- 
bourers, and pilots who sought Tyars. 

“He ain’t one of us at all,” muttered a sturdy 
lighterman to his mate. “’E’s a toff, that’s wot 
’e is; a gentleman, if yer please.” 

But gentleman or no gentleman, these toilers 
of the sea welcomed the plucky sailor with a 
hoarse cheer. The stately ship glided smoothly 
forward in all the deep-seated glory of her moss- 
grown decks, her tarnished brass, her slack 
ropes. There seemed to be a living spirit of 
calm silent pride in the tapering spars and 
weather-beaten hull, as if the vessel held high 
her head amidst her sprucer compeers. She 
seemed to be conscious — this mere structure of 
wood and iron and yielding hemp — that her 
name was far above mere questions of paint and 
holystone. Her pride lay in her deeds and not 
in her appearance. Her sphere was not in moor- 
ings but upon the great seas. She came like a 
soldier into camp, disdaining to wipe the blood 
from off his face. 

Tyars stood near the wheel, hardly noticing 
the crowd upon the quay. The pilot and the 
dock-master had to some extent relieved him of 
his command, but he still had certain duties to 
perform, and he was still the captain of the Mar- 


HOME 


29 

tialy the only man who sailed from London in 
her to return again. 

When at last she was moored and his com- 
mand had ceased, he went below and changed 
his clothes. When he came on deck a little later, 
Claud Tyars was transformed. The keen, re- 
sourceful sailor was merely a gentleman of the 
world. Self-possessed and somewhat cold in 
manner, he was the sort of man one would ex- 
pect to meet on the shady side of Piccadilly, 
while his brown face would be accounted for by 
military service in a tropical climate. 

The idlers in the Shipping Office at Tower Hill 
were treated on the following morning to a 
strange sight. According to formula, the brok- 
ers of the Martial had indicated to the shipping 
authorities their desire to pay off the crew of the 
vessel. Shortly before the hour named a num- 
ber of women began to assemble. Some were 
dressed respectably, others were of the lowest 
class that London produces; but all made some 
attempt at mourning. One or two wore their 
crape weeds with that incomprehensible femi- 
nine pride in such habiliment which shows itself 
in all grades of society, while others were clad in 
black— rusty, ill-fitting, evidently borrowed. A 
common sorrow, a mutual interest, served as in- 
troduction among these ladies, and they talked 
eagerly together. Scraps of conversation floated 
over the black bonnets. One had lost her hus- 
band, another her son, a third only her brother. 


30 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“Ain’t ’e come yet?” they asked each other at 
intervals. “The survivor — ’im that brought ’er 
’ome with his own ’ands. I wanter ask him 
about my man — about ’is end.” 

There were no signs of violent sorrow; only a 
sense, discernible here and there, of importance, 
the result of crape. 

At last a hansom cab turned the corner of the 
Minories and pulled up noisily on the noisy 
stones. Claud Tyars threw open the doors and 
stepped out. He had come to be paid off; he 
was the ctew of the Martial, 

In a moment he was surrounded by the 
women, every one clamouring for news of her 
dead sailor. The broker’s clerk, an observant 
youth, noticed that during the half-hour that 
followed, Tyars never referred to his log-book, 
but answered each question unerringly from 
memory. He gave details, dates, and particu- 
lars without hesitation or doubt. It was perhaps 
owing to a knowledge of the commercial value 
of a good memory that the young clerk made 
note of these details. He was not observant 
enough to take account of the finer shades of 
manner, of the infinite tact with which the sur- 
vivor of the crew treated the women-folk of his 
late comrades. He did not detect the subtle art 
by which some were sent away rejoicing over 
the dogged, dauntless courage of their husbands; 
he was only conscious of a feeling of admiration 
for this man who hitherto had hardly noticed 


HOME 


31 


him. But he failed to discern that the difficult 
task was accomplished unconsciously. He did 
not realize that Claud Tyars possessed a gift 
which is only second to genius in worldly value 
— the gift of unobtrusively ruling his fellow-men. 

As Tyars drove away from the Shipping Office, 
he saw the street newsvendors displaying their 
posters with the words: “A wonderful story of 
the sea,” printed in sensational type. 

“Hang it,” he muttered with a vexed laugh, 
“ I never counted on a notoriety of this sort.” 

Presently he bought an evening paper and read 
of the exploits of “ Captain ” Tyars with a singu- 
lar lack of pride. 

When Mr. Lowell, the owner of the Martial, 
offered him the command of the ship the same 
afternoon in Leadenhall Street, he gravely and 
politely declined it. With the shipowner, as 
with Lieutenant Grace, Tyars appeared quite 
blind to the necessity of an explanation, and 
none was asked. 

So ended the incident of the Martial. Its di- 
rect bearing upon the life of Claud Tyars would 
seem to terminate at the same moment; but in- 
directly the experience thus acquired influenced 
his career, formed to some extent his character, 
and led (as all things great and small lead us) to 
the end. 


CHAPTER IV 

IN BROOK STREET 

In the meantime Lieutenant Grace had received 
at the hands of his father and sister a warm wel- 
come. 

Without announcement of any description he 
made his way from the Admiralty to Brook 
Street, and knocked at his father’s door. He 
found the old gentleman and Miss Helen Grace 
engaged in the consumption of afternoon tea. 

‘‘Oswin!” exclaimed the old admiral in a 
voice laden with muffin and emotion. 
thought you were on the African coast.” 

Helen Grace was a young lady not much given 
to exclamatory expression of feeling. She rose 
from the low chair she habitually occupied near 
the small table built upon two stories — tea above 
and work below — and kissed her brother. 

Then she turned his face toward the light by 
the collar of his coat. 

“ Have you been invalided home ?” she asked. 

“No.” 

“But the Foam is out there still,” put in the 
admiral, eager to show his intimate knowledge 
of official matters. 

“Yes. I came home in a derelict. A fine, big 
32 


IN BROOK STREET 


33 


ship without a crew. All dead of yellow fever, 
except one. I am glad that he was picked out by 
Providence to survive.” 

“Why.?” inquired Helen. 

“ Because I like him.” 

“What was he — A. B. or officer ?” asked the 
admiral, who having despatched the mutfin was 
now less emotional. 

“ Second mate, holding a captain’s certificate. 
I have asked him to dinner to-morrow night.” 

“Oh!” murmured Helen, doubtfully. 

“With his dog — the other survivor.” 

“Ah!” said Helen, in a more interested tone. 
“ Do they know how to behave themselves .? ” 

“I think so — both of them,” was the reply. 

“It seems to me,” observed the admiral, with 
an easy chuckle, which seemed in some way con- 
nected with the depths of his chest, “that you 
did not devote much time at all to the question 
of toilet.” 

“No,” replied Grace, frankly. “We were a 
shady crew. You see there were only ten of us 
to navigate a thousand-ton ship full-rigged. We 
had no time for personal adornment. You will 
see all about it in the evening paper; I brought 
one with me on purpose. May I have some tea, 
Helen ? It is months since I have seen such an 
article as bread-and-butter.” 

“ And this man,” she inquired when the para- 
graph had been duly digested — “the man you 
have asked to dinner — what is he like ? ” 


34 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


The naval officer helped himself to a limp 
slice of bread-and-butter with great thoughtful- 
ness. 

“That it just the difficulty,” he replied. “I 
cannot tell you what he is like — because I don’t 
know. I do not understand him — that is the long 
and short of it. He is above me.” 

“I suppose,” suggested the admiral, who held 
the keener study of human nature in some con- 
tempt, “that he is merely a rough sailor-man — a 
merchant captain.” 

The lieutenant shook his smooth head. 

“No,” he answered, “he is hardly that. I 
want you,” he continued after a pause, turning 
to his sister, “to judge for yourself, so will not 
tell you what I think about him.” 

“Then he is interesting.?” 

“Yes, I think you will find him interesting.” 

Helen was already seeking in her mind how 
things could be made easy and comfortable for 
the unpolished hero whom her brother had so 
unceremoniously introduced into the house. 

“Agnes Winter was coming to-morrow to 
dine, but she can be put off,” she observed, care- 
lessly. 

“Agnes Winter — why should she be put off? 
Let her come by all means.” 

The little man’s manner was perhaps too in- 
different to be either natural or polite. He was 
either unconsciously rude or. exaggerating an in- 
difference he did not feel. Helen, however. 


IN BROOK STREET 


35 

continued her remarks without appearing to 
notice anything. 

“ Would you not,” she inquired, while replac- 
ing in its vase a flower that had become dis- 
placed, “rather have him quite alone — when we 
are by ourselves, I mean ” 

“Oh no. He is all right. If he is good enough 
for you, he is good enough for Agnes Winter.” 

“Has he got a suit of dress-clothes .^ ” asked 
the admiral, with a blunt laugh. 

Lieutenant Grace let his hand fall heavily upon 
his thigh with a gesture of mock regret. 

“I quite forgot to ask him,” he exclaimed, 
dramatically. 

“There is some mystery attached to this per- 
son,” laughed Helen. Her laughter was a little 
prolonged in order that her father (whose duller 
sense of humour sometimes failed to follow his 
son’s fancy) might comprehend that this was a 
joke. 

“Well,” said the old gentleman, thrusting his 
hands deeply into his pockets, “I like a man to 
come to my table in a claw-hammer coat.” 

Helen’s gentle eyes rested for a moment on her 
brother’s face. With an almost imperceptible 
movement of lid and eyebrow, hardly amounting 
to the license of a wink, he reassured her. 

“ What time is dinner ? I told him to come at 
seven o’clock,” said he, holding out his cup for 
more tea. 

“That is right,” answered Helen. 


36 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

‘‘You would have done better,” said the ad- 
miral, still unpacified, “ to have given the man a 
dinner at your dub.” 

“Oh,” replied his son, serenely, “I wanted 
you and Helen to make his acquaintance; besides 
I could not have invited Muggins to the dub.” 

“Muggins?” growled the old gentleman in- 
terrogatively. 

“ The dog.” 

“Ah. Is he a presentable sort of fellow then, 
that you want your sister to meet him ? ” 

“The dog?” inquired Grace, with much inno- 
cence. 

“No,” laughed his father, despite himself; 
“the man — Tyre, or Sidon, or whatever his 
name is.” 

“Tyars. Yes; I think so. Tyars is distinctly 
presentable ... or else I would not have 
suggested his comingc” 

The two men now started a conversation upon 
very nautical matters, employing such technical 
terms and waxing so interested that Helen sought 
a chair near the window and settled down to 
listen with respectful silence. This went on 
until a functionary blessed with a beaming 
countenance came to announce that the admiral’s 
hot water had gone upstairs. It was always a 
pleasure to be waited on by Salter, although as a 
butler ptir et simple he was a questionable suc- 
cess. Although he wore a black coat and irre- 
proachable linen, carried the cellar-key, and per- 


IN BROOK STREET 


31 


formed most scrupulously his household duties, 
the man was a sailor from the top of his thickly- 
covered gray head to the soles of his great silent 
splay feet, to which shoes were an evident trial. 

When the admiral had left the room to attend 
to his formal toilet, Oswin crossed the floor and 
stood beside his sister, his hands stuffed deeply 
into his pockets, his scrutinizing glance cast 
downward. 

“And,” he observed, “and — here we are 
again! ” 

She laid aside her work. 

“Yes,” said she, affectionately. “Here we 
are again. I have not quite realized it yet.” 

“ But I could not let you know, my dearly be- 
loved.” 

“No, I suppose not. As it is, the faithful 
Salter will be happy because it will be in his 
hands. I expect he has been in your room ever 
since you arrived.” 

“ Poor old Salter! ” exclaimed the young fellow, 
in a tone which betokened that he was not think- 
ing very much of what he was saying. “When 
he opened the door he swore and remarked 
affably that it was Oswin, without any narrow- 
minded prefix or title. Then he offered me his 
hand.” 

There was about Grace’s manner the slightest 
suspicion of a desire to fill up time. He was 
talking with the view of gaining time to think of 
some other subject. He now broke off suddenly 


38 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

and walked away down the whole length of the 
large room, looking at chairs, tables, and orna- 
ments critically. 

“It is very nice,” he observed, “to be home 
again.” 

Helen had resumed her work, and without 
looking up she answered — 

“ It is very nice to have you back.” 

For some moments there was a silence in the 
room, while the young officer examined critically 
a bowl of flowers standing upon the mantelpiece. 
Then he turned and spoke with a conversational 
evenness. 

“ How is Agnes Winter ? ” he asked. 

“She is very well. Did those flowers remind 
you of her ? ” 

“Ye — es,” he replied, slowly; “I wonder why.” 

“Because she arranged them, I suppose,” 
suggested the girl, looking up suddenly as if 
struck at the possibility of her idea being of 
some weight. 

“ Perhaps so. She is not engaged yet ? ” 

Helen threaded a needle with some care and 
stooped over her work. 

“No; she is just the same as ever. Always 
busy, always happy, always a favourite. But — 
one never hears the slightest rumour of an en- 
gagement, or even a flirtation.” 

“While,” added Grace, airily, “ her dear friend 
flirts here and flirts there, but keeps clear of the 
serious part of it all with equal skill.” 


IN BROOK STREET 


39 

Which friend?" inquired Helen, innocently. 

'‘Yourself! " 

“Oh! I have my duties. Papa could not get 
on without me. Marriage and love and all that, 
you know, have much more to do with conven- 
ience than is generally supposed." 

“Indeed ?" 

She ignored his pleasantry. 

“I often wonder," she said, thoughtfully, 
“ why somebody or other does not fall in love 
with Agnes Winter." 

After a pause he put forward a suggestion. 

“ Because she will not let him, perhaps." 

“That may be so, but surely a sensible man 
does not wait to be allowed." 

“The question," he answered, with mock 
gravity, “ is rather beyond me. It is hard to say 
what a sensible man would do, because in such 
matters no rule can be laid down defining where 
sense begins and foolishness ends. The man 
who got Agnes Winter would be sensible, how- 
ever he did it." 

Presently the girl went to dress for dinner, 
leaving her brother standing at the window 
whistling softly beneath his breath. 


CHAPTER V 


A REUNION 

If there had been any doubts entertained or 
discussed as to the presentability of Claud Tyars 
in polite circles, these were destined to an instant 
removal when that individual entered the draw- 
ing-room of No. 105 Brook Street. 

His manners were those of a travelled and ex- 
perienced English gentleman. That is to say, he 
was polite without eagerness, pleasant without 
gush, semi-interested, semi-indifferent. 

The necessary introductions were made, and 
there was no bungling over this difficult social 
duty. 

“I think,” said Helen at once, “that we have 
met before.” 

She was looking up at Tyars, who being very 
tall stood a head higher than any one in the room, 
and in her eyes there was no speculation, no 
searching into the recesses of her memory. The 
remark was without interrogative hesitation. It 
was the assertion of a fact well known to her, 
and yet her colour changed. 

“ Yes,” answered Tyars; “I had the pleasure 
of dancing with you at the Commemoration three 
years ago.” 


40 


A REUNION 


41 


“But you are not an Oxford man!” put in 
Lieutenant Grace. 

“No.” 

“What a good memory you have, Mr. Tyars!” 
observed Miss Agnes Winter in a smooth soft 
voice. “Perhaps you can help mine. Have we 
met before ? I know your face.” 

He turned to her with a smile in which there 
was no light of dawning recollection. 

“ Hardly,” he replied. “ But you were sitting 
in the middle of the last row of the stalls at a 
performance of Hamlet last autumn.” 

“Now I remember,” interrupted Miss Winter, 
with her pleasant laugh; “of course. Please 
don’t tell me any more. My stall was number — 
number two hundred and sixty . . . ” 

“Four,” suggested Tyars, in such a manner 
that it was in reality no suggestion at all. 

“Yes; two hundred and sixty-four. There 
was an empty seat on my right hand.” 

“And an old gentleman occupied that on your 
left.” 

“ My father,” she explained simply, but in the 
tone of her pleasant voice there was something 
which made Tyars look gravely at her with a 
very slight bow as if in apology. Oswin Grace 
glanced at his sister with raised eyebrows, and 
she nodded almost imperceptibly. He had not 
heard of old Mr. Winter’s death. 

In less skilled hands this incident might have 
led to an awkward silence, but Agnes Winter 


42 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


had not spent ten years of her life in a whirl of 
society for nothing. She knew that one’s own 
feelings are of a strictly individual value. 

“You,” she continued, “took the vacant 
seat.” 

There was something very like a question in 
her glance. Oswin Grace did not look pleased, 
and his eyes turned from one face to the other 
searchingly. Then she seemed suddenly to have 
received an answer to her query, for she turned 
to Helen and launched into narration gaily. 

“I will tell you,” she said, “why these details 
are engraven so indelibly upon such a poor sub- 
stance as my memory. It was rather a grand 
night; royalty was present, and the theatre was 
almost full. In front of me were two men who 
did not appear to be taking an absorbing in- 
terest in the play, for one was drawing some- 
thing which I took to be a map upon his pro- 
gramme . . 

“ It was a map,” confessed Tyars, lightly. 

“While he whispered earnestly at intervals to 
his companion, I came to the conclusion that 
he was trying to persuade him to go and look 
for Livingstone, which suggestion was not well 
received. At last he turned round. I thought 
he was admiring, or at least noticing, the new 
diamond star in my hair, but subsequent events 
proved that he was looking over my head. I 
was disappointed,” she added aside to Tyars. 

“ I both noticed and admired,” he exclaimed in 


A REUNION 


43 

self-defence. “There were two diamond stars, 
one much larger than the other.” 

“Well,” continued Miss Winter, in her gentle 
rippling style, “at the first interval this irre- 
proachable young man left his seat, came round, 
turned back the chair next to me, and shook 
. . . with a man in the ” 

The pith of the story lay in its narration, which 
was perfect. The lady knew her audience as an 
able actor knows his house. By some subtle 
trick of voice the incident was made to redound 
to Tyars’ credit, while its tone was distinctly 
against him. The easy, cheery, honest humour 
of voice and expression was irresistible. Even 
the admiral laughed — as much as he ever laughed 
at a joke not related by himself. 

“ He was,” explained Tyars in his unsatisfac- 
tory way, “a friend of mine.” 

At this moment the door was opened by Salter, 
who came forward as if he were going to snatch 
at his forelock and report that he had come on 
board; but he evidently recollected himself in 
time, and announced that dinner was ready. 

As they were moving toward the door, Oswin 
suddenly stopped. 

“Where is Muggins?” he asked. 

“On the mat,” replied Tyars. “He was 
rather shy, and preferred waiting for a special 
invitation. He is not quite at home on carpets 
vet.” 

“I have heard about Muggins,” said Helen to 


44 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Tyars as they went downstairs together, ‘'and 
am anxious to make his acquaintance.” 

So Muggins was introduced to his new friends, 
standing gravely on the dining-room hearth-rug 
with his sturdy legs set well apart, his stump of 
a tail jerking nervously at times, and his pink- 
rimmed eyes upraised appealingly to his master’s 
face. He was endeavouring to the best of his 
ability to understand who all these well-dressed 
people were, and why he was forced into such 
sudden social prominence. Moreover, he was 
desirous of acquitting himself well; and there 
was a smell of ox-tail soup that was somewhat 
distracting to a seafarer. 

The dinner passed off very pleasantly, and 
many subjects were discussed with greater or 
less edification. Miss Winter seemed to take the 
lead, in virtue of her seniority over the young 
hostess, touching upon many things with her 
light and airy precision, her gay philosophy, her 
gentle irony. Helen was graver in her conver- 
sation, lacking the dexterity of Miss Winter in 
dealing with every subject as if at one time she 
had studied it and thought upon it. Oswin was 
lightest in his touch of them all, for he treated 
most things in life from a farcical point of view 
— at least in conversation. And upon every sub- 
ject Claud Tyars seemed to know something. In 
the recesses of his singular memory there seemed 
to be an inexhaustible store of experience, read- 
ing, hearsay, and knowledge. Great facts were 


A REUNION 


45 


mixed up and stored side by side with trivial de- 
tails. He was as intimate with the words of 
Hamlet as he was posted up in the details of Miss 
Winter’s toilet on the occasion of that play being 
acted in London a year before. 

When the two ladies left the dining-room, they 
carried with them the impression that Claud 
Tyars was unlike any man they had ever met. 
It was difficult to define in the possession of 
what qualities this difference lay, but both alike 
were vaguely conscious of that fascination which 
is exercised by utter naturalness. It was in his 
complete unconsciousness of any difference that 
Claud Tyars was different from other men. He 
was in perfect ignorance of his own individuality. 
In his heart he rather prided himself upon being 
eminently commonplace. The impression he 
unconsciously conveyed was that instead of be- 
ing purposeless his life and being were absorbed 
by one unique interest to the exclusion of all else. 
What this interest might be the two girls could 
not tell, and over this question each speculated 
in her own way as they mounted the softly-car- 
peted stairs in silence. 

The drawing-room was now lighted by a large 
pink-shaded lamp which cast its mellow glow 
downward upon a table artistically disorderly in 
its comfortable chaos of literature and woman’s 
work. Despite her thirty years Agnes Winter 
drew forward a low chair, and seated herself be- 
side the table in the full glow of the lamp; tak- 


46 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


ing up an illustrated magazine, and turning the 
pages idly. Helen went toward the piano, which 
was always open in silent invitation. She did 
not seek any music, but sat down and played 
snatches of anything that came into her head, 
while her foot pressed the soft pedal continu- 
ously. This habit of making muffled music was 
the outcome of her father’s slumberous ways 
after dinner. 

“ Helen! ” 

The girl did not answer at once, but continued 
her rambling melody, while Miss Winter turned 
to the magazine again. 

“Yes,” she said at length, making the music- 
stool revolve. 

“ Why,” asked Agnes Winter without looking 
up, “did you not tell me that you had met Mr. 
Tyars before?” 

The girl appeared to have expected the ques- 
tion; her reply was quite ready, and almost fore- 
stalled the words. 

“Why should I have thought of connecting 
the Mr. Tyars of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
with the second mate Tyars of the merchantman 
Martial ? ” 

“No ... of course it was hardly likely, 
but you recognized him at once, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes — I think so.” 

“ I do not remember,” continued Miss Winter, 
casually, “that you ever mentioned having met 
him.” 


A REUNION 


47 


*‘No?" 

Helen turned again upon the revolving stool, 
and sought the soft pedal. 

“No!” answered Miss Winter, leaning sud- 
denly back, and dropping her two hands into 
her lap. Her dark, intelligent eyes were raised 
thoughtfully toward the young girl, who was 
now playing a minuet with great precision. 
“No; I think not.” 

Although Helen continued playing for some 
time Miss Winter did not resume her book. She 
sat in the comfortable chair quite motionless, ap- 
parently buried in thought. 

It was Helen who at length broke the silence, 
rising and coming into the rosy circle of lamp- 
light. 

“ Agnes,” she said, “ I wonder why that man 
has . . . taken to the sea ” 

The elder lady allowed herself the luxury of 
some moments’ thought. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered at length, alter- 
ing her posture smoothly; ''and,'* she added 
lightly, “I don’t care.” 

They remained thus looking at each other. 
There was a slight smile upon Miss Winter’s face, 
her red lips were parted pleasantly. After all, 
she did right in drawing her chair close to the 
lamp — she had nothing to fear from its searching 
light. Her complexion was of that clean pink 
and white which never alters, never burns in the 
summer or grows rough in winter; and her fea- 


48 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


tures were round and pleasantly full. She was 
the sort of woman to look well with gray hair 
fifteen years later than the period at which Tyars 
met her. As a girl she probably gave promise 
of future stoutness, as a woman she had failed 
to keep the promise, and remained tolerably slim. 
The small white hands and arms, dropped idly in 
her lap, had a clever dexterous air with them. 
The majority of her friends looked upon Agnes 
Winter as a woman who was not likely to make 
an egregious error in life. 

The slight smile with which she encountered 
her companion’s grave glance might have aggra- 
vated persons to whom her character was super- 
ficially known. Its tenor was almost ironical. 
Helen, however, continued gazing gravely down 
at the pleasant whole without heeding the irony 
of the eyes. 

“/5 he not peculiar.^” she said at length, with 
a little backward jerk of the head. 

“Very! Most peculiar, I consider him. Never- 
theless I like him.” 

“ He is . . . odd,” said Helen, moving 

away to clear a small table for the coffee-tray. 

“ Yes,” murmured Miss Winter. “ And I think 
he has an object ... He would like us to 
think that he has not — but I think he has.” 

“ What sort of an object ? ” 

“An object in life, my dear.” 

Helen came forward carrying a small Chinese 
table. 


A REUNION 


49 


“I suppose we all have that.” 

'‘Not all of us, Helen,” corrected Miss Winter, 
with a slight suspicion of bitterness. 

“And what do you suppose Mr. Tyars’ object 
in life to be 

Miss Winter shrugged her shoulders. 

“I have not the slightest conception,” she re- 
plied; “no doubt we shall find out in time. 
Men cannot conceal an honest purpose for very 
long. It leaks out.” 

Helen took up her work, and presently found 
a comfortable chair which she brought forward 
beside the little table. But she did not seem dis- 
posed to ply her needle very steadily. After a 
few stitches her lingers became idle. She raised 
her head, and although her eyes were apparently 
fixed upon the upper part of the wall, she did 
not give one the impression of seeing anything. 
Her gaze had the appearance of penetrating the 
wall, piercing through the thick vapours of earth, 
and soaring away into ethereal depths unknown. 
At the same time she seemed to be listening. 
Her face was like that of a child told by her nurse 
to listen for the beat of an angefs wing. 

Miss Winter glanced up, and immediately re- 
turned to the perusal of her magazine. She 
knew that expression of Helen’s face, and had 
once laughingly told her that when she thought 
deeply she seemed to expect the ideas to come 
flying down from heaven, for she looked and 
listened for them as if they were birds. 


50 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


At length the girl stirred and gave forth a little 
short, practical sigh. 

“Well,” inquired Miss Winter, pleasantly, 
“what is the result of that?” 

“Of what?” 

“Of that meditation.” 

Helen put in a few stitches before replying 
frankly — 

“I wish I knew his object.” 

“ I do not suppose,” said the elder woman in a 
consolatory tone, “that it will prove very interest- 
ing. It is probably a very commonplace object — 
the most commonplace of all perhaps, money. 
After the age of thirty few of us care for anything 
else, and I should set him down at thirty-two.” 

Helen shook her head in gentle negation, but 
did not make any further protest. She turned to 
her work again, and sewed for a considerable 
time in silence. Once she raised her head as if 
about to speak, but the words came not forth. 
A second time she raised her head and spoke 
slowly in such a way that no interruption was 
permissible. 

“I am interested,” she said, “in the matter, 
because I have a sort of feeling that whatever 
Mr. Tyars’ object in life may be, Oswin will be 
drawn into it sooner or later. I don’t know from 
whence I got the idea, but that is my distinct im- 
pression. Did you notice the way in which he 
looked at Oswin? He seemed to be watching 
him, studying him, drawing him out.” 


A REUNION 51 

“As if,” suggested Miss Winter, keenly, “he 
were examining him for some special object.” 

“Yes. Then you noticed it ? ” 

Agnes Winter nodded her head gravely. 

“I almost wish,” said Helen, after a short 
pause in which they had both recalled in silent 
thought the small incidents of the evening; “I 
almost wish, Agnes, that he had not come.” 

This was greeted with a short laugh — the fear- 
less laugh of a woman who knows her will to 
be stronger than the average will of man. 

“Why?” 

“ Because . . . because of his object. 

This purposeless man came here to-night not 
because he happened to have nothing better to 
do, not because he was too indifferent to refuse 
Oswin’s invitation, but for some specific reason.” 

“Now,” observed Miss Winter, in a very 
matter-of-fact voice, “you are exaggerating 
matters. There is no greater mistake to be 
made than to assign motives indiscriminately. 
Most people have no motives at all, some of 
us have them occasionally, but nobody has a 
chronic purpose.” 

“Mr. Tyars has a chronic purpose, that is 
why he is different from other people,” persisted 
Helen. 

There was a pleasant confidence about Miss 
Winter. Perhaps it was merely a conversational 
attribute of no great influential power, but it 
frequently obtained for her the credit of know- 


52 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

ing more about her subject than was really the 
case, 

“No,” she said calmly; “he is different from 
other people because his appearance is singular. 
His height is decidedly above the average, and 
there is a peculiar solid force about him which 
may mean great strength of will, or it may be 
only a matter of physical bulk. He wears a 
beard, and beards are not the fashion just now, 
even in the navy. That, my dear, is why Mr. 
Tyars is different from other people.” 

She stopped and seemed to await a reply, 
which, however, was not forthcoming. Then 
suddenly she descended to a feminine detail. 

“I like his beard,” she added, “it is trim and 
manly.” 

This observation Helen was pleased to ignore. 
She was still meditating over the expression of 
Tyars’ face while he happened to be looking at 
her brother Oswin. She could not explain it to 
herself, but there was something disquieting in 
the attention accorded by this man to his new 
friend. It was not only, as she had explained to 
Miss Winter, that Tyars was watching Oswin 
Grace, but there was in the* man’s steady eyes a 
gleam of distinct purpose. She had seen this on 
more than one occasion, had caught it in transit, 
and in the momentary flash of misapprehension 
had been quite unable to define its meaning. 

“I should think,” she said at last, “that he is 
a man of very strong will.” 


A REUNION 


53 


Miss Winter smiled meditatively. 

It is difficult,” she answered, “to tell on such 
a short acquaintance. Men are like bottles of 
wine. One should not judge them from the ap- 
pearance of the sawdust they carry.” 

“Still, I think that on further acquaintance one 
would find a strong will beneath Mr. Tyars’ 
pleasant suavity.” 

“Perhaps so.” 

“I should be rather afraid to count upon the 
contrary,” said Helen. 

Again Miss Winter smiled in a pleasant, indif- 
ferent way, which in some degree made the con- 
versation trivial in its bearing. 

“Oh no,” she murmured, reassuringly; “I 
think I should not be afraid to match myself 
against Mr. Ty . . .” 

At this moment the door opened and Tyars 
came in, followed by the admiral. They had 
come up the thickly-carpeted stairs without 
speaking. 


CHAPTER VI 


DOUBTS 

Miss Winter looked up with a smile and met 
Tyars’ smiling eyes. 

There was no doubt whatever that he had 
heard. The matter did not present itself to her 
mind in the light of a question. She knew, and 
over this certainty she was thinking with all the 
rapidity of her sex and kind. Woman of the 
world as she was, she acted promptly: if a 
placid inactivity can be prompt and may be so 
denominated. It is dangerous to lay down a 
comprehensive rule for anything or any crisis in 
life; but it seems that calmness is a great factor 
in human progress. One would conclude in a 
small way, from small experience, that the people 
who do good in the world and get on therein are 
those who keep calm “when breezes blow,” and 
do almost nothing. Almost — not quite nothing! 
It is such as these who act rightly when the mo- 
ment comes. They are the reserve of the great 
human army, and from a military point of view 
it is well to consider in whose hands rests the 
command of the reserve. He should be the best 
man upon the field. 

“We have,” said Tyars, pleasantly, addressing 
54 


DOUBTS 


55 

both ladies at once, “been talking most un- 
mitigated ‘shop.’” 

“It seems to me,” replied Miss Winter, “that 
gentlemen always do. The seed that runs to 
waste in gossip with us, sprouts into sturdy 
‘shop ’ with men.” 

The admiral, who was at times a little testy 
after a good dinner, lifted his white head and 
mentally measured this youth who dared to place 
his own knowledge of maritime matters upon a 
level with that of an old sea-dog like himself — 
who dared, moreover, to class the two under the 
opprobrious term of “shop.” 

“Then,” he said in a throaty voice as he seated 
himself, “I suppose you call yourself quite a 
sailor despite your Cambridge honours.” 

“Not in your presence.” 

Helen looked up sharply over her coffee-tray. 
It was impossible to tell whether there were 
irony or not in the smile with which Tyars 
looked down at his host. The old man took 
the remark as a compliment, in which spirit it 
had to all appearances been made. 

“The sea,” he said in a pleasanter tone, “is 
like a woman. Young men think they under- 
stand it, old men^know they don’t!” 

“And,” put in Miss Winter between sips of 
coffee, ‘ ‘ its mystery lies in its simplicity. ” . . . 

She turned toward Tyars, who was standing 
over her with a plate of biscuits. As she took 
one she looked up at him for a moment. “In 


56 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

both cases,” she said, the superficial is honoured 
by too small an attention. Men look too much 
beneath the surface for events that come from 
outside.” 

“ I have been told,” he answered, “ that a good 
sailor learns to take things as they come without 
seeking to learn from whence they do so.” 

“Do you take sugar.?” inquired Helen, in her 
downright way. 

“Or,” added Miss Winter, without looking 
up, “ will you take your coffee as it comes.?” 

Tyars had crossed the room toward Helen. 
He glanced back over his shoulder after having 
received his cup. 

“Seeing,” he said to Miss Winter, “from 
whence it comes, I think I will.” 

She laughed, and answered nothing. Perhaps 
she was thinking of the words he had probably 
overheard on entering the room. There was a 
pause and a silence such as succeeds the whistle 
and the ring of steel when two fencers lower their 
foils and breathe hard. At this moment Oswin 
Grace entered the room carrying some books, of 
which there had been a question at the table. At 
his heels came Muggins, who, however, paused 
upon the threshold and watched his master’s 
face. 

“Let him come in,” said Helen to Tyars. 

And so Muggins joined the party, and went 
from one to the other with a calm ignorance of 
the undercurrents of social intercourse. He was 


DOUBTS 


57 


pleasant and courteous, as was his invariable 
habit, and it is not for us to analyze his motives or 
to insinuate that sweet biscuits are pleasant fare 
after hard tack and rusty, warm water. He soon 
discovered that Miss Winter failed to recognize 
his manifold virtues, but this omission was re- 
paired by Helen, whose silk train was offered 
for his comfort. With that air of philosophic 
surprise which is characteristic of his kind he ac- 
cepted the proffered seat, and snored rather 
loudly during the evening. 

As the time went on, passing pleasantly 
enough in that vague and general conversation 
which vanishes as soon as intimacy begins. Miss 
Winter noticed how very little Tyars spoke of 
himself. This reticence was almost a fault, and 
it may as well be stated at once that so far from 
possessing a motive was Tyars, that he was 
quite unaware of the peculiarity. It was a mere 
habit acquired from a continuous intercourse 
with men below him in the moral and social scale. 
He had dropped into a way of treating every- 
thing from an impersonal point of view, which 
in time is calculated to aggravate the listener. 
Discussions carried on in such a spirit are in 
reality desperately futile, because if we do not 
frankly take the world from a personal point of 
view we shall not get much instruction from it. 
Miss Winter went so far as to place him once or 
twice in such a position that his own personal 
opinion, or the result of individual experience, 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


58 

would have been the simplest answer, but he in- 
variably quoted from the experience of some 
vague and unnamed acquaintance. Admiral 
Grace was the only person who really succeeded 
in getting a piece of personal information, and 
this by the bluntest direct question. 

“I once,” said the old gentleman, “was on a 
committee with a west-country baronet of your 
name — a Sir Wilbert Tyars — is he any relation of 
yours ? ” 

“Yes,” Tyars answered, with just sufficient in- 
terest to prove his utter indifference. “Yes; he 
is my uncle.” 

There was a short pause; some further remark 
was evidently expected. 

“I have not seen him for many years,” he 
added, closing the incident. 

When Miss Winter’s carriage was announced 
at a quarter to eleven, Tyars rose and said good- 
night with an unemotional ease which might 
equally have marked the beginning of an intimacy 
or the consummation of a formal social debt. 

When Agnes Winter came downstairs arrayed 
in a soft diaphanous arrangement of Indian silk 
he was gone, and the three young people, as 
they bade each other good-night in the hall, were 
conscious of a feeling of insufficiency. None of 
the three attempted to define this sensation even 
to themselves, but it was not mere curiosity — not 
that vulgar curiosity which attracts all human be- 
ings to a drawn curtain. It is worth noticing that 


DOUBTS 


59 


Claud Tyars’ name was not mentioned again in 
the house after the front-door had closed behind 
him. And yet every person who had seen him 
that evening was thinking of him; upon them all 
the impress of his singular individuality had been 
left. 

“’Ain’t wot I’d call a sailor man neither,” mut- 
tered Salter, thoughtfully scratching his stubbly 
chin with a two-shilling piece which happened 
to be in his hand as he returned to the pantry 
after closing the front-door. “And yet there’s 
grit in him. Sort o’ ‘bad weather’ man. I’m 
thinking.” 

Oswin’s reflections as he undressed and slowly 
prepared for sleep were of a mixed character. 
He was not quite sure that the visit of his late 
shipmate had been an entire success. His own 
personal interest in the man had in no way di- 
minished, but the light of feminine eyes cast upon 
their friendship had brought that difference which 
always comes to our male acquaintances when 
we introduce them to our women-folk. 

Claud Tyars in flannel shirt and duck trousers 
on the deck of the Martial was in Oswin Grace’s 
estimation the personification of all that is manly; 
but the same individual in evening dress, tread- 
ing soft carpets instead of washed-out planks, 
talking in a smooth voice instead of shouting 
orders, was quite a different man. He admitted 
to himself that Tyars seemed to be as much at 
home in the one place as in the other. And he 


6o 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


failed perhaps to see that the reason of this subtle 
feeling of antagonism was not so deeply hidden 
after all. It lay in the simple fact that that side 
of Claud Tyars’ character which can only be de- 
scribed as the dominant — the unconscious but 
arbitrary influence wielded by him — was emi- 
nently desirable on the quarter-deck, and dis- 
tinctly out of place in a drawing-room, presided 
over by a young lady. 

Grace knew that his father had been prejudiced 
against Tyars because he was a merchant sailor 
and a second mate; qualifications which are 
hardly recommendations in a drawing-room. 
He suspected that Helen was not entirely free 
from this same preconceived opinion, and prob- 
ably Agnes Winter had been made a partner in 
the feeling. Now prejudice is a hard foe to 
meet, because the human mind, as we all know, 
is skilful at twisting facts and fancies into any 
shape but the right one. A mistaken prejudice 
has before now lasted the lifetime of its victim — 
we see the work of prejudice around us every 
day. Oswin Grace was a sufficiently close ob- 
server of human nature to know that Tyars had 
come into his father s house heavily handicapped. 
He was quite aware that his late companion in 
peril had, up to seven o’clock that evening, been 
looked upon by his father, his sister, and Miss 
Agnes Winter as a person who was not quite a 
gentleman. The question now was whether the 
last four hours had made any difference in this 


DOUBTS 


6i 


opinion; if so, what difference? He had in- 
tended to surprise his family with the manifest 
fact that if any Englishman had a right to the 
vague appellation, Tyars was distinctly entitled 
to it. Of the conveyance of this impression 
Oswin felt confident, but he was now wonder- 
ing whether they had found out what sort of 
gentleman he was. It takes a good deal less than 
four hours to find out whether a person is a gen- 
tleman or not. It can be done in four seconds, 
for this is a mere matter of instinct; but it is 
quite another task to judge a man from a critical 
point of view — to decide whether one likes him 
or not. Respecting his father’s impressions 
Grace was not very anxious; but for some reason 
which he did not attempt to define, he was 
desirous of hearing what Miss Agnes Winter 
thought of his friend Claud Tyars. He thought 
that he had detected a peculiar mutual attrac- 
tion between these two. Tyars addressed his 
conversation more frequently to Miss Winter 
than to any one else, although he had in his 
manner recognized Helen as the only sister of his 
friend. Miss Winter had allowed herself to be 
interested in his remarks, and had even gone so 
far as to display warmth in more than one argu- 
ment in which he came out the best. Oswin 
Grace had always looked upon Miss Winter as a 
firm friend. She represented in his eyes all that 
was perfect and fascinating in womanhood. His 
sister he looked upon as the incarnation of gen- 


62 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


tieness and goodness; for few of us, unfortu- 
nately, allow our sisters the credit of being either 
perfect or fascinating. Although he had never 
lost sight of the fact that Agnes Winter was his 
senior by some years, his feelings toward her 
were more akin to love than to anything else. 
Their mutual relationship was one of those 
strange and dangerous anomalies that mislead 
men, and have misled them since the days of 
Plato. It will not be recorded what the world 
had to say about them, for that has remarkably 
little to do with the case. The world is pleased 
to pass off opinions as facts; and in this case 
opinion carried no weight, while the only fact of 
solid worth is that they were close friends. 
Grace did not give one the impression that he 
was suffering under blighted hopes; he displayed 
none of those petty jealousies, none of those airs 
of proprietorship, with which lovers harass the 
footsteps of the young person they admire. He 
had noticed this subtle sense of mutual under- 
standing between the two persons whom he con- 
sidered at that moment to be his dearest friends 
upon earth, and it is just possible that for the 
first time in his life he felt a slight pang of jeal- 
ousy. 

At all events he realized that Miss Winter’s 
judgment of Tyars was, of the three, the most 
likely to be free from prejudice. If there was in 
his heart the slightest feeling of jealousy he was 
too loyal to allow such thoughts to influence his 


DOUBTS 63 

friendship for Tyars, whom he honestly con- 
sidered to be a better man than himself. 

A German writer once made the remark that 
Prejudice is a more dangerous enemy to Truth 
than Falsehood; and it was doubtless in partial 
knowledge of this fact that Oswin Grace felt 
himself called upon to defend his friend. Most 
of us, especially when we were young, have ex- 
perienced that sense of helpless disappointment 
which almost inevitably follows upon the bring- 
ing together of two dear friends hitherto un- 
known to each other. The fact of possessing a 
mutual friend is not, after all, such a strong and 
unexceptional tie as one would imagine. Grace 
was disappointed by the utter want of enthusi- 
asm displayed by his sister and Miss Winter re- 
specting the man whom he admired enthusiastic- 
ally himself. He had purposely refrained from 
singing Tyars’ praises because he felt confident 
that the man was capable of winning instant 
admiration without assistance. Perhaps he had 
unconsciously allowed this prejudice to grow up 
against him in his blind admiration for one whom 
he looked upon as worthy of universal respect. 
The young sailor was now burthened by un- 
pleasant doubts as to whether Tyars had come 
through the ordeal with flying colours. He ig- 
nored the great difference in the circumstances 
of his own meeting with Tyars and that of his 
family. 

The peculiar position of making a man’s ac- 


64 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


quaintance by saving his life is one from which 
a cool and deliberate criticism can hardly be 
made. From the very first he had felt himself 
drawn toward the incongruous castaway whose 
calm reception of events was calculated to appeal 
to the heart of every brave man. The friendship 
had grown from this tiny germ into a strong tree 
upon which mutual burdens might in years to 
come be hung. Tyars had come into the Brook 
Street drawing-room under more ordinary cir- 
cumstances, and with no flourish of brave trump- 
ets. Altogether the circumstances of the first 
visit were against him. 

Oswin Grace was still meditating over these 
things when sleep overtook him; but he had in 
the meantime fully made up his mind to see 
Agnes Winter the next day. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE “ARGO” 

It was not yet nine o'clock the following morn- 
ing when Tyars left the door of the old-fashioned 
hotel where he was staying in the very heart of 
London. The usually busy streets were still com- 
paratively empty. Washed-out housemaids in 
washed-out cotton dresses were dusting the front 
doorsteps of such old-world folks as were con- 
tent to continue living on the eastern precincts of 
Tottenham Court Road. 

As the young fellow walked briskly through 
some quiet streets and finally emerged into Hol- 
born he was smoking a cigarette with evident 
enjoyment. In his dress there was this morning 
a slight suggestion of the yachtsman, that is to 
say, he was clad in blue serge, and his brown 
face suggested the breezes of ocean. Beyond 
that there was nothing to seize upon, no clue as 
to what this young man’s calling or profession, 
tastes or habits, might be. He stopped occasion- 
ally to look into the shop-windows with the 
leisurely interest of a man who has an appoint- 
ment and plenty of time upon his hands. Any 
one taking the trouble to follow him would have 
been struck with the singularity of his choice in 

65 


66 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


the matter of shop-windows. He appeared to 
take an interest in such establishments as a gen- 
eral dealer’s warehouse. There is a large grocer’s 
shop on the left-hand side of Holborn, half-way 
down, and here he stopped for a considerable 
time, studying with great attention a brilliant 
array of American tinned produce. A tobacco- 
nist’s was treated with slight heed, while the 
wares of a large optician appeared to be of ab- 
sorbing interest. 

Thus he made his placid way eastward. At 
about nine o’clock he was nearing the General 
Post-office, and here he called a hansom cab. 
Down Cheapside, Cornhill, Gracechurch Street, 
into Eastcheap, and so on to Tower Hill, the 
driver guided his evil-tempered horse. The doors 
of St. Katherine’s Dock had been open only a 
few minutes when Tyars passed through the 
building into the London Dock. 

On the quay, under an iron-roofed shed at 
the head of the dock, a red-faced, red-bearded, 
clumsy man was walking slowly backward and 
forward with that idle patience which soon be- 
comes second nature in men accustomed to wait- 
ing for weather and tides. When he perceived 
Tyars he lurched forward to meet him, expecto- 
rating hurriedly and surreptitiously with the evi- 
dent desire of concealing from one side of his 
face the proceedings of the other. 

Tyars acknowledged his jerky salutation with 
a pleasant nod, and they walked away together. 


THE “ARGO” 


67 


This burly son of the north was the man with 
whom Tyars had exchanged a shake of the hand 
one evening in a London theatre when Miss 
Winter was seated close by. 

They walked the whole length of the dock, 
avoiding with an apparent ease, pitfalls in the 
way of ring-bolts, steam-pipes, and hawsers. 
At the lower end of the basin, moored to a buoy 
in mid-dock, lay a strange-looking little steamer. 
Her chief characteristic was clumsiness — clumsi- 
ness of hull, clumsiness of spar, and general top- 
heaviness. An initiated eye would account for it 
at once by the fact that this was one of those rare 
anomalies in English waters, a wooden steamer. 
Her bows were originally very bluff, and being 
now heavily encased in an outer armour of thick 
timber the effect was the reverse of pretty. She 
was rigged like a brig, and her tall, old-fashioned 
funnel, rearing its white form between the masts, 
suggested an enlarged galley-chimney. 

Altogether she was the strangest-looking craft in 
the docks, where many quaint old ships are slowly 
rotting to this day. The London Dock is a sort 
of maritime home for incurables. Here are to 
be found strange constructions of oak and teak 
and pine; experiments in iron, abortions in steel. 
Commerce has almost left these waters for more 
convenient quarters lower down the river, and 
here vessels from all parts of the world, each and 
every one with its past history clinging to its old- 
world spars, humming through its hempen rig- 


68 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


ging — here they find a last resting-place on the 
still and slimy water; here they rock no more to 
the roll of ocean, fight no more against adverse 
winds and foul weather. Their mouldering 
decks know not now the tread of quick bare feet, 
their bleached ropes hang idle, for the fingers 
that grasped them are limp and mouldering. The 
grass is peeping up between the stones of the 
quay, where in days gone by the ever-increasing 
wonders of India oozed odourously between the 
staves of their clumsy casks. The jaggery is 
washed out from the crannies in the pavement, 
the plumbago has vanished from the walls, and 
through the vast warehouses reigns a solemn si- 
lence. 

All things in this home for incurables suffer 
from the same disease, and one for which there 
is alike no cure and no mercy in these times. A 
deadly slowness pervades them all. It is the 
leprosy branded on the old sad ships and written 
on the rusted chains of the old hand-cranes, now 
utterly and hopelessly superseded by hydraulic 
power. The grim warehouses with their narrow 
entrances, their inconvenient passages and awk- 
ward doorways, tell the same tale. They lack 
the power of speed; when they were built ra- 
pidity was not a human virtue. 

In the midst of this Tyars and his uncouth 
companion stood gazing out into the middle of 
the basin toward the ugly steamer. It was said 
among the dock-labourers and custom-officers 


THE “ARGO 


69 

that the vessel had been built at Trontheim in 
Norway for a steam-whaler; that she had been 
bought by an Englishman, and was now being 
leisurely fitted out under the supervision of the 
red-haired Scotchman who lived on board. Her 
destination was a profound mystery. Some 
thought that she was to be a whaler, specially 
fitted for the “north water”; others boldly 
stated that she was destined to open up com- 
merce with China by the Northeast passage. 
But it was nobody’s business to inquire, and 
speculation is a form of conversation much af- 
fected by persons who lounge about the water’s 
edge. The ship’s account was regularly paid by 
a West-end lawyer, and beyond that the Dock 
Company had no inclination to inquire. 

“I think,” said Tyars, critically, as he stood 
examining the little steamer, “that you have got 
on splendidly, Peters. She looks almost ready 
for sea.” 

“Ay . . responded the red-faced man 

slowly. 

He was no great conversationalist. With his 
great head bent forward he stood beside the tall, 
straight man, and in his attitude and demeanour 
there was a marked resemblance to a shaggy, 
good-natured bear. His small green eyes, deeply 
hidden beneath red-gray brows, twinkled specu- 
latively as he took in every rope and spar. 

“You have got the new foremast up, I see. 
A good bit of wood ? ” 


70 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“ Fine! ” 

He shook his head sadly from side to side at 
the mere thought of that piece of wood. 

“ And the standing-rigging is all up ?” 

“Ay . . 

“And the running-rigging ready 

“Ay; them riggers was fools." 

Tyars smiled in an amused way and said noth- 
ing. 

A boat now put off from the strange steamer 
and came toward them. A small boy, standing 
in the stern of it with his legs apart and his back 
turned toward them, propelled it rapidly with 
half an oar. Presently it came alongside some 
slimy steps near to them, and the two men 
stepped into it without speaking. There was 
something hereditary in the awkward manner in 
which the boy jerked his hand up to his forehead 
by way of salutation. They all stood up in the 
boat, the older men swaying uncomfortably from 
side to side at each frantic effort of the boy with 
the half-oar. 

When they reached the steamer Tyars clam- 
bered up the side first, stepping on board with 
the air of a man well acquainted with every cor- 
ner of the ship. He looked round him with an 
unconscious pride of possession, at which a 
yachtsman would have laughed, for there was no 
great merit in being the owner of such a ludicrous 
and strange craft. Peters, the red-faced sailor, 
followed, and a minute examination of the vessel 


THE “ARGO” 


71 


began. Below, on deck, and up aloft, the two 
men overhauled together every foot of timber, 
every bolt and seizing. The taciturn old fellow 
followed his employer without vouchsafing a 
word in praise of his own handiwork. He did 
not even deign to point out what had been done, 
but followed with his head bent forward, his 
knotted fingers clasped behind his back. As it 
happened there was no need to draw attention to 
such details, for here again Tyars displayed the 
unerring powers of his singular memory. No 
tiny alteration escaped him. There seemed to be 
in his mind a minute inventory of the ship, for 
without effort he recalled the exact state of every- 
thing at an earlier period, vaguely designated as 
“before 1 went away.” 

No improvement however small escaped com- 
ment, and yet the praise was very moderate. In 
this matter he might well have allowed himself 
some license, for the work was almost faultless. 
It was a marvellous record of steady, untiring in- 
dustry. From morning till night through many 
months this ship's carpenter had toiled at his la- 
bour of love. Unurged by any master beyond his 
own conscience, he had worked while daylight 
lasted, lying down to rest in the floating scene 
of his labours when the day was done. He had 
been purposely allowed carte blanche in the mat- 
ter of materials, and a large limit respecting time. 
In this Tyars gave evidence of a deep knowledge 
of men — that instinctive knowledge without 


72 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


which no commander, no leader of his fellows, 
ever yet made his mark in the world. 

When the inspection was finished the two men 
walked slowly aft, and standing there beside the 
high, old-fashioned wheel they gazed forward, 
taking in slowly and deliberately every detail of 
rigging and deck. 

“I believe,” said Tyars at length, “that I have 
found the man I want — my first mate.” 

The twinkling green eyes sought the speaker’s 
face unobtrusively. 

“ Ay,” said the old fellow in a non-committing 
voice. 

“A royal navy man.” 

There was the faintest whistle audible in the 
stillness of the deserted dock. Tyars looked 
down at his companion, whose gaze was stead- 
ily riveted on the foretopgallant mast. The 
whistle was not repeated, but the straightfor- 
ward sailor disdained to alter the form of his 
twisted lips. 

“1 had,” continued Tyars, calmly, “another 
very good man — cook and steward — but he died 
of yellow fever.” 

Peters turned slowly and contemplated his em- 
ployer’s face before answering — 

“Ay . . .” 

It was a marvellous monosyllable. In its lim- 
ited compass he managed to convey his knowl- 
edge of Tyars’ late exploit — his entire approval 
of the same — and his regret that the good cook 


THE -ARGO" 


73 


and steward should have been called to another 
sphere while there was, humanly speaking, still 
work for him to do here below. 

Then he stood stock-still with his misshapen 
lips pressed close together. His grizzled mus- 
tache and short beard (of which each individual 
hair seemed to be distorted with a laudable en- 
deavour to out-curl its neighbour) were some- 
what discoloured by tobacco smoking and the 
indulgence of another evil habit connected with 
consumption of the same weed. Tyars glanced 
at him, and saw in every curve of his powerful 
frame, every line of his scarified face, a stubborn, 
ruthless contempt for all wearers of her Majesty’s 
uniform at sea. The old sea-dog had no patience 
with the drawing-room manners observed (and 
necessarily observed) on the decks of her Majesty’s 
ships. He was displeased that Tyars should have 
become acquainted with a naval man to whom 
he thought of entrusting a post of importance, 
but true to his stubborn habits of silence he 
would not speak of it. Tyars knew well enough 
the thoughts that were passing through the mind 
of his companion. He ignored however the 
naval man, and went on to talk of the steward 
last mentioned. 

-This fellow,” he said, - was just the sort of 
man I want. Plenty of hard work in him, and 
always cheerful. Sort of man to die laughing, 
which in fact he did. The last sound that passed 
his lips was a laugh.” 


74 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Peters nodded his head in a large and compre- 
hensive way. At times he was desperately lit- 
eral, but there were occasions when he could 
follow a thought only half expressed. His lips 
parted, but no sound came from them. In any 
case it would only have been the weighty mono- 
syllable with which this ancient mariner at- 
tempted to work off his conversational liabilities. 

As they were standing there, Peters the younger 
emerged from the small galley amidships, bear- 
ing a tin filled with potato-peelings which he 
proceeded to throw overboard. Seeing this, the 
proud father eyed his employer keenly, and 
moved from one sturdy leg to the other. He 
clasped and unclasped his hands, while his jaw 
made a slight motion as if to bestow more con- 
veniently some object located in the cheek. All 
these symptoms denoted a great effort on the 
part of the ship’s carpenter. He was, in fact, 
about to make a remark. At last he threw up 
his head boldly. 

‘‘And the lad?” he said, with some abrupt- 
ness. 

Tyars looked critically at the youth, momenta- 
rily engaged in expelling the last few pieces of 
potato-skin adhering to the tin, and made no an- 
swer. His face hardened in some indescribable 
way, and from the movement of mustache and 
beard it seemed as if he were biting his lip. 

“There’s plenty o’ work in him— an’ he’s 
cheerful,” almost pleaded the man. 


THE ‘‘ARGO 


75 


Tyars shook his head firmly. Had Miss Win- 
ter seen his face then, she would have admitted 
readily enough that he was a man with a pur- 
pose. 

“ He is too young, Peters.” 

The carpenter shuffled awkwardly to the rail, 
and having expectorated viciously, returned with 
his dogged lips close pressed. 

“ Have ye thowt on it ? ” he inquired. 

Tyars nodded. 

“I’d give five years o’ my life to have the lad 
wi’ us,” he muttered. 

“ Can’t do it, Peters.” 

“Then 1 winna go without him,” said Peters, 
suddenly. He thrust his hands into his trousers- 
pockets and stood looking down at his own mis- 
shapen boots. 

The faintest shadow of a smile flickered 
through Tyars’ eyes. He turned and looked at 
his companion. Without the slightest attempt at 
overbearance he said pleasantly — 

“Yes, you will . . . and some day you 

will thank God that the boy was left behind.” 

Peters shrugged his shoulders and made no 
answer. For the first time in his life he had met 
a will equal to his own in stubbornness, in pur- 
pose. And it was perhaps easier to give in to it 
because in method it differed so entirely from his 
own. It is possible that in the mere matter of 
strength Peters was a mental match for his em- 
ployer, but Tyars had the inestimable advantage 


76 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

of education. Neither equality, nor fraternity, 
nor liberty can stand against education. 

Admiral Grace in taunting Tyars with his 
Cambridge honours had unwittingly laid his 
finger upon the weakness of his entire genera- 
tion. In his time a scientific sailor had been un- 
known. Tyars belonged to a later class of sea- 
men, as indeed did his friend Oswin Grace, and 
both men were conscious of their own superior- 
ity in seamanship over the sailors of Admiral 
Grace’s day, though they were too wise to be- 
tray their knowledge. 

It was this reserve of knowledge which ren- 
dered the result of a struggle between the stub- 
born Scotchman and his employer a foregone 
conclusion. And as Tyars clambered nimbly 
down the side of the little wooden steamer, the 
carpenter was vaguely conscious of defeat. 

The little boat was urged to the shore in the 
usual jerky manner, while the clumsy, red-faced 
sailor stood watching from the deck. He noted 
how Tyars was talking to the boy, who laughed 
at times in a cheery way. 

“Ay,” muttered Peters, with a short, almost 
bitter laugh, “there’s some that is born to com- 
mand.” 

As Tyars passed out of one gate of the London 
and Saint Katherine’s Dock, a lady entered the 
premises by another. They passed each other 
unconsciously within a few yards. Had either 


THE “ARGO” 


77 

been a moment earlier or a moment later they 
would have met. 

The imposing gate-keeper touched his hat re- 
spectfully to the lady, who was Miss Agnes 
Winter. 


CHAPTER VIII 

IN THE CITY 

Claud Tyars walked through the narrow 
streets, westward, without noticeable haste. 
His gait was neither that of the busy city mer- 
chant nor the easy lounge of the sailor out of 
work. On Tower Hill and in Trinity Square 
these two classes almost monopolize the pave- 
ment. He was therefore somewhat remarkable, 
and more than one sailor turned back to look at 
the keen-eyed man, who had honoured him with 
such an obvious glance of interest; for Claud 
Tyars had a habit of looking at his fellows in the 
peculiar gauging manner which Miss Grace had 
detected. 

It was not an offensive habit, but still some- 
what noticeable. We have all seen artists look 
at the sky or the sea or a landscape with a 
skilled analyzing glance. In like manner the 
botanist examines growing things, or the jockey 
his horse. It was in this way that Tyars looked 
at some men, notably at sailors. Some of them, 
especially those in search of a ship, almost touched 
their hats in response. To a certain extent they 
were justified, because Tyars seemed almost to 
be seeking some one. 


78 


IN THE CITY 


79 


When he reached the broader streets and fuller 
thoroughfares of the city proper, his eyes grew 
more restful. The man or men he sought were 
evidently innocent of a silk hat. He passed 
through Eastcheap and up Gracechurch Street, 
failing to take advantage of certain small passages 
and time-saving thoroughfares in a manner which 
betrayed his ignorance of his whereabouts. He 
looked about him inquiringly, but made no at- 
tempt to ask his way. Presently he seemed to 
recognize some familiar landmark, for he went 
on, crossed Cornhill, and proceeded up Bishops- 
gate Street. He turned suddenly up a narrow 
passage on the left-hand side of the street, and 
pushing open a swing-glass door, climbed a 
flight of lead-covered steps. On the second floor 
he stopped before a door bearing on a small brass 
plate the name, M. M. Easton. Without knock- 
ing he opened the door, and on his entrance an 
elderly man rose from his seat at a low table, and 
after a quick glance lowered his colourless gray 
eyes, bowing gravely. Tyars returned the salu- 
tation with a short nod. 

The elderly man then turned to go into a room 
beyond the small bare office, and the most casual 
observer could hardly have failed to notice a 
singularity in the contrast thus afforded. When 
he turned his back, this city clerk was no longer 
elderly. His back was that of a young man. 
Addressing himself to some unseen person in the 
inner room, he uttered two words only — the 


8o 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


name of the Englishman waiting in the outer 
office — without prefix or comment. 

“Come in, Tyars! " called out a cheerful tenor 
voice immediately, and the clerk turning, and 
turning, so to speak, into an old man again, 
stepped aside to let the visitor pass through the 
doorway. 

The man who rose to greet Tyars, holding out 
a thin hand across the table at which he had been 
seated, was singularly slight. His narrow shoul- 
ders sloped at a larger angle from the lines of his 
sinewy neck than is usually to be found in men 
of the Anglo-Saxon race. The hand held out 
was unsteady, very white and long, while the 
formation of each joint and bone was traceable. 
The face was narrow and extremely small; at 
school Matthew Mark Easton had been nick- 
named “Monkey” Easton. Despite his youthful 
appearance, it was some years since he had left 
school, and indeed men of his year at Harvard 
were mostly married and elderly while Easton 
still retained his youth. In addition to* this 
enviable possession there was still noticeable in 
his appearance that slight resemblance to a 
monkey by which he had acquired a nickname 
singularly appropriate. It was not only in the 
small intelligent face, the keen anxious eyes and 
thin lips, that this resemblance made itself discerni- 
ble, but in quickness of glance and movement, in 
that refined and nervous tension of habit which is 
only found in monkeys of all the lower animals. 


IN THE CITY 


8i 


By way of greeting, this man whistled two or 
three bars of See the Conquering Hero comes, 
softly through his teeth, and pointed to a chair. 

“Smith,” he said, raising his voice, “you may 
as well go to the bank now with those cheques.” 

There came no answer to this suggestion, but 
presently the door of the outer office closed 
quietly. 

“ I call him Smith,” continued Easton, in a thin 
and pleasant voice spiced by a distinct American 
accent, which to Anglo-Saxon ears lent humour to 
observations of an ordinary and non-humourous 
character, “ because his name is Pavloski. There 
is a good honest English ring in the name of 
Smith which does not seem so much out of place 
when he has his hat on as you might imagine. 
That unfortunately luxuriant crop of gray hair 
standing straight up gives him a foreign appear- 
ance, which the name of Pavloski would seem to 
confirm. Besides, it takes such a long time to 
say Pavloski.” 

While he was speaking, Easton’s face had re- 
mained quite grave and consequently very sad. 
Such faces as his know no medium, they are 
either intensely humourous or intensely sad. He 
spoke lightly, and seemed to be giving very little 
real attention to what he was saying. On the 
other hand his small brown eyes were restless, 
they moved from one part of his companion’s 
person to another as if seeking some change 
which was not visible. 


82 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


There was a short silence. Both had much to 
say, and they appeared to be thinking and search- 
ing for a suitable beginning. Easton spoke 
first. 

“ I see,” he said, “that you are trim and taut, 
and ready as usual. The executive keeps up to 
the mark.” 

Although he spoke with business-like terse- 
ness his accents were almost irresponsible, like 
those of a woman. For most women pass 
through life without ever incurring a full respon- 
sibility. They usually lay half the burden on the 
shoulders of some man in their proximity. 

“Yes,” replied Tyars, “my department is in 
working order. The ship is getting on well, and 
I have found my first officer.” 

The slight delicate man looked at his compan- 
ion’s large limbs and half suppressed a sigh. 
His wistful little face contracted into a grave 
smile, and he nodded his head. 

“I dislike you,” he said, in his peculiarly hu- 
mourous way, “when you talk like that. It 
seemed to imply an evil sense of exultation in 
your physical superiority, which, after all, is 
fleeting. You are only dust, you know. But — 
but it is rather poor fun staying at home and 
pulling strings feebly.” 

“It has its advantages,” said Tyars, in an un- 
consciously thoughtful tone, which brought the 
restless eyes to his face at once. “ Besides,” he 
added more lightly, “you do not pull feebly. 


IN THE CITY 83 

The tugs are pretty strong, and the strings you 
must remember reach a good distance.” 

“Ye — es!” Matthew Mark Easton had a sin- 
gular habit of elongating the little word into 
several syllables, as if in order to gain time for 
thought. He would say “y — e — e — s,” and fix 
his eyes on one in a far-off way which was at 
times rather aggravating. One felt that he was 
mentally wondering all the time why one wore 
such as ugly scarf-pin, or tied one’s tie in such a 
shapeless heap. 

“Ye — es! I suppose it has. But,” he said, 
rousing himself, “ I have not been idle. That is 
to say. Smith — Pavloski Smith, you know! He 
has been working terrifically hard. Poor devil! 
His wife is out there — at Kara.” 

“ Yes — I know. You told me,” interrupted 
Tyars, and his manner unconsciously implied 
that a fact once imparted to him was never for- 
gotten. “ Has he heard from, or of, her yet ? ” 

“No; not for two years! He believes she is 
alive still, and a report came from Riga that she 
has been sent to Kara.” 

The Englishman listened without comment. 
His strong bearded face was not pleasant to look 
upon just then, for the massive jaw was thrust 
forward, and there was a peculiar dull glow in 
his placid eyes. 

“There was a child, you know,” continued 
the American, watching the effect of his words, 
“to be born in prison — in a Siberian prison, 


84 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


where the attendants are the riff-raff of the Rus- 
sian army — more brutes than men. That would 
probably be a year ago.” 

He paused, his thin voice lowering toward the 
end of the sentence in a way that rendered his 
American accent singularly impressive in its sim- 
ple narrative. 

“I wonder,” he continued, “what has become 
of that refined lady and that helpless infant — 
now. It brings the thing before one, Tyars, in 
rather a bright light, to think that that man Sm — 
Pavloski, who comes here at half-past nine every 
morning, goes out to lunch in a small eating- 
house next door, and goes home to his Penton- 
ville lodging at five o’clock — that that man has a 
wife in a Siberian prison. A wife — a woman 
whom he has lived with every day — day after 
day; whose every tone, every little gesture, every 
thought, is familiar to him. I surmise that it must 
be worse than being in a Siberian prison oneself! ” 

It is easy to set down the words, but to render 
the slight twang, the jerky power of expressing 
pathos that lay hidden in this man’s tongue, is a 
task beyond any pen. In most voices there lies 
a speciality. No one can go to a theatre, upon 
the stage of which a language comprehensible to 
him is spoken, without hearing this. Some there 
are possessing a peculiar ring which tells of pas- 
sion, others a light tone which is full of natural 
humour. Each may play through his part indif- 
ferently until a few lines come which enable him 


IN THE CITY 


85 


to show his speciality, and after that, until the 
fall of the curtain, he seems a different man. He 
has proved his right to be upon the stage. 

Matthew Mark Easton probably knew the 
powers of his own voice. His quick eyes could 
not fail to see it written upon the immovable 
features of the big cold-blooded Englishman op- 
posite to him. Doubtless this was by no means 
the first time that ordinary everyday words had 
gained something from his enunciation of them. 
Doubtless Tyars was not the first strong man that 
this small American had fascinated and turned 
according to his own caprice. 

“I suppose,” he continued, in his slow, 
thoughtful way, “that most of us outsiders, 
English, Americans, and Frenchmen, are in the 
habit of laughing a little at these fellows — these 
so-called Nihilists, Terrorists, Propagandists. We 
think them too high-flown, too dramatic, too 
mysterious. But lately I have begun to suspect 
that there is a good deal of realism in it all. 

Smith — why, d n it, man — Smith is painfully 

real. There is no humbug about Smith. And 
most of them — all the men and women I have 
had to deal with — are in the same boat as he.” 

Tyars stopped him with a quick gesture of the 
head, as if to intimate that all this was no news 
to him. 

“Why,” he asked curtly, “are you showering 
all this upon me ? Do you think that I am the 
sort of fellow to turn back ?” 


86 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Easton laughed nervously. 

“Oh no!” he answered, in an altered tone. 
Then he turned in his chair, and unlocking a 
drawer in the pedestal of his writing-table, he 
drew forth several leather-bound books, which 
he set upon the table in front of him. “ Oh no! ” 
he said, turning the pages. “Only you seemed 
to be of opinion just now that the pastime of 
staying at home and pulling strings had its ad- 
vantages.” 

“So it has,” was the cool reply; “but that in 
no way alters the case as far as I am concerned.” 

“Then I apologize,” said Easton, raising his 
eyes without moving his head; “I thought . . . 
perhaps — well, never mind!” 

“ \Vhat did you think ? ” 

“I had a sort of notion that some other inter- 
est had sprung up — that you were getting sick 
of all this long preparation.” 

“And wished to back out.?^” suggested Tyars. 

As he spoke he looked up, and their eyes met. 
A strong contrast — these two pairs of eyes. The 
one, large, placid, intensely English; the other, 
quick, keen, and restless. Although Easton’s 
gaze did not lower or flinch, his eyes were not 
still; they seemed to search from corner to corner 
of the large glance that met his own. 

“I am afraid,” he said, ignoring the question, 
“that I am getting a trifle sceptical. I have had 
more than one disappointment. Our doctor — 
Philippi, you know — has been appointed sanitary 


IN THE CITY 


^7 

inspector to the town of Lille, or something 
equally exciting. He has intimated that while 
fully sympathizing with our noble scheme, he 
can only help us now with his purse and his 
prayers. I do not know much about his purse, 
but the practical value of his prayers will, I sus- 
pect, be small. I do not imagine that his devo- 
tions offered up at his bedside in Lille will assist 
you materially to steer through the ice on a dark 
night in the sea of Kara.” 

Tyars did not take up the question of the effi- 
cacy of prayer in this case or in general. As has 
been intimated, he was one of those Englishmen, 
who, in their cultivation of the virtue of inde- 
pendence, almost reduce it to a vice. Upon 
most matters and most questions he held decided 
views, which, however, he felt in no way moved 
to impart to others. He was utterly without 
kith or kin in the world, a fact of which the rec- 
ognition greatly influenced his whole life, and 
being a lone man he was one of those who never 
see the necessity of opening his soul to others. 

“It comes, no doubt,” he said, half apologiz- 
ing for the French doctor’s treachery, “from his 
failure to realize the whole thing. The nation 
took up the question of the slave-trade without 
a moment’s hesitation, and that was one upon 
which there were undoubtedly arguments upon 
both sides, of equal weight. We are not sure 
now that the comparatively small proportion of 
the human race victimized by the slave-trade has 


88 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


really benefited (at least so a man connected with 
its suppression has told me) by the action of 
England. Upon this question there can be no 
doubt whatever. The state of Russia and her 
system of government is a disgrace to the whole 
world — yet the whole world closes its eyes to 
the fact. The Siberian exiles, in my estimation, 
call for more sympathy than those thick-skinned, 
dense-brained niggers.” 

Easton said nothing. His father had been a 
slave-owner, but the fact was unknown to Tyars, 
and he did not think it necessary to mention it. 
In America a man stands upon his own legs. 
Ancestral glory is of much less importance than 
in the old country, and consequently the posses- 
sion of forefathers is a blessing held cheap. In 
this matter Easton had no reason to fear investi- 
gation, for his family was of ancient standing 
in the South, but he never mentioned his fore- 
fathers, immediate or remote, because the sub- 
ject had in his eyes no importance. He was 
an American, and followed the custom of his 
country. Had the slave-trade never been sup- 
pressed Matthew Mark Easton would have been 
one of the richest men in America. As it was, 
he sat daily in this little office in the city of Lon- 
don conducting — to all outward appearance — a 
small and struggling commission agenfs busi- 
ness. It was somewhat characteristic of the man 
and his country that Tyars should be allowed to 
remain in ignorance of these matters. 


IN THE CITY 


^9 

Easton now turned to the leather-bound books, 
and the two men sat far into the day discussing 
questions strictly technical and strictly confined 
to the fitting out of the small vessel lying in the 
London Dock, for an expedition to the Arctic 
Seas. Even in the discussion of these details 
each man retained his characteristic manner of 
treating outward things. Easton was irrespon- 
sible, gay and light, while beneath the airy touch 
there lurked a truer, firmer grasp of detail than 
is possessed by the majority of men. His queer 
little face was never quite grave, even while 
speaking of the most serious matters. His man- 
ner was, throughout, suggestive of the forced 
attention of a schoolboy, ready to be led aside 
at the slightest interruption, while the relation of 
hard facts and the detailing of long statistics ran 
from his glib tongue without the least sign of 
effort. 

Tyars listened for the most part, but here and 
there he put in a suggestion or recalled a fact in 
a way which betrayed a mind singularly capable 
of grasping and retaining details in such wide- 
spread variety that greater things could hardly 
fail to be influenced by such a mass of stored-up 
knowledge. Without formulating any theory, 
this man seemed to take human life more as a 
huge conglomeration of details than a compre- 
hensible whole. There can be little doubt that 
such men are right in their estimate of human 
existence, for it is these and such as these who 


90 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


make a mark upon the historical records of the 
world. The ladder of fame, has crumbled cen- 
turies ago. To that high boi/rn there is no ladder 
now, but those who wish to climb there will 
find beneath their feet a huge misshapen rubbish- 
heap. This heap is the accufnulation of centuries, 
Generation after generation has shot its rubbish 
there, and for us of later days there is nothing 
left but a hook and basket with which to rum- . 
mage and dig for good things hidden beneath 
the mass of garbage wherewith to build a base 
to work upon. 


CHAPTER IX 


SEVEN MEN 

More conspiracies have failed from impecuni- 
osity than from treachery. If a man have money 
in sufficient quantity, secrecy is easily purchased. 
Even if he have enough to buy a respectable coat 
he is already on the high road to success. If the 
conspirators assemble in swallow-tail coats and 
white ties they are almost free from danger. 
Suspicion fixes herself upon the impecunious, the 
unfortunate, the low in station. She haunts the 
area-steps and flies at the luxurious sound of car- 
riage-wheels. She never enters the front-door, 
but if she wishes to reach the upper floors, 
creepeth up the back stairs. Under the respecta- 
ble shade of a silk hat, gloved and washed, any 
of us may trespass where he with but a shabby 
coat and forlorn boots will call down ignominy 
on his head. Well dressed we may steal horses, 
shabbily clad we must not even look over walls. 

There was in the temperament of Matthew 
Mark Easton that small seed of aggressive cour- 
age which makes conspirators, agitators, and 
rebels of sensible men. He possessed all the 
non-conservative energy of his countrymen, with 
more than their usual thoughtfulness. Although 
91 


92 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


he had at different periods of his life studied 
more than one grave social question, he had not 
yet learnt to recognize that the solution of all 
such is not in the hands of individuals or even 
nations. The seed must indeed be sown by in- 
dividuals, but its growth, its welfare or fall is be- 
yond the influence of man. 

During the record that follows, of a great 
scheme conceived six years ago, it may be patent 
to the understanding of many that Matthew Mark 
Easton was not the man for the position in which 
he found himself placed; that he was in fact a 
very round peg in a geometrically square hole. 

Had Easton been told that he was destined to 
play an important part in a great conspiracy, he 
would have laughed his informant to scorn, and 
in this he would have been no better or worse 
than the majority of us. He was not by any 
means conspicuously possessed of organizing 
powers, but was merely a clear-headed, cool 
American, with a fair sense of enjoyment, and a 
good capacity for looking on the brighter side of 
things before the world if not in his inmost 
heart. A thin, slightly-built man with hollow 
cheeks is never an optimist, but he may incline 
to the brighter side while contemplating life with 
considerable discrimination. 

Under the influence of such men as Tyars and 
Pavloski, he was capable of developing great 
energy, and there is little doubt that these two, 
unconsciously working together, forced the 


SEVEN MEN 


95 


American to assume a gradually increasing weight 
of responsibility, to the dimensions of which he 
remained partially ignorant. 

In persuading Tyars to espouse a cause of 
which the particulars will be hereafter narrated, 
Easton had, some years previously, unwittingly 
cast his own lot with that cause to a greater and 
fuller extent than his easy-going nature would 
ever knowingly have allowed. He had set the 
torch to a brand of which the flames soon envel- 
oped him. Meeting Tyars at an international 
aquatic competition, a friendship had sprung up 
between them, both being lonely men with no 
sisters or cousins to admire their prowess. Keen 
searchers into human motives might be inclined 
to aver that the fact of their being by no means 
rivals had something to do with the formation of 
this sudden friendship between two reserved 
men. Tyars was entered to row in the compe- 
tition, while Easton had brought his sailing canoe. 

It is just possible that Easton was to some ex- 
tent carried away by his own peculiar eloquence, 
which lay as much in intonation as in words. 

These slight retrogressive explanations will 
serve perhaps to make clear the position of Mat- 
thew Mark Easton with regard to Claud Tyars in 
the events that follow. To some extent the out- 
come of these past incidents was a dinner-party 
given by the American one November evening, 
six years ago, in his spacious rooms on the first 
floor of No. 176 Gordon Street, Russel Square. 


94 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Of those assembled some are living to this day, 
but others though young in years are now dead, 
leaving to the survivors the memory of a brave 
example, the unanswered question of a useless 
life, lived and lost without apparent benefit to 
any concerned. 

There was nothing singular or remarkable 
about the fare provided. It was in fact supplied 
“all hot” by a neighbouring confectioner; but the 
guests formed as unique a collection of feasters 
as could well be found even in the metropolis of 
England. 

Among the first to arrive was Smith — “P. 
Smith,” as Easton playfully called him. The old 
young clerk of the little office in the city, Pavloski 
Smith, was dressed in irreproachable swallow- 
tail coat and white tie. His shirt-studs, how- 
ever, were larger than usually worn in the best 
circles, and the precious stone of which they 
were formed was amethyst, which in some de- 
gree stamped him as a foreigner who had not 
lived long in England. 

He shook hands with Easton, bowing his gray 
head in a peculiar jerky manner, as if they had 
not parted at the office two hours before. 

After him came at intervals three men; the 
first elderly and stout, the other two younger; 
but all alike had that peculiar repose of manner 
which was especially noticeable in the man called 
Pavloski. They were evidently foreigners, these 
men, but it was not easy to say whether they were 


SEVEN MEN 


95 


of one nationality. They spoke English remark- 
ably well, and made few mistakes in grammar. 
The linguistic fault possessed by all alike was a 
certain labial effort, which savoured neither of 
the heavy deliberation of the German, nor of the 
carelessness of the Gaul. Their tongues and lips 
seemed always to be on the trapeze, and a series 
of tours de force was the result. Their English 
was too colloquial in contrast to their accent and 
tone of voice. 

Easton received them with a few words of 
welcome. 

“Tyars,” he said to each in turn, has found 
a gentleman who will serve as first officer. He 
brings him to-night.” 

“ Is,” inquired the stout man, who was of a 
somewhat ceremonious habit, — “is Mr. Tyars 
well?” 

“Quite well, thanks; at least I surmise so,” 
was the answer. 

The two younger men heard the news without 
comment. 

Without awaiting an invitation, Pavloski drew 
a chair forward to the hearth-rug and sat there 
directly in front of the fire, holding his two 
hands out toward the warmth. In this position 
it became evident that he was a contemporary 
of the two younger men, who presently moved 
toward the fire, and stood talking together in 
their peculiar English, while Easton and the stout 
gentleman exchanged meaningless platitudes. 


96 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

The three younger men had thus grouped 
themselves together, and when placed in prox- 
imity there was some subtle point of resemblance 
between them which could not at first sight be 
defined. It lay only in the eyes, for in build and 
complexion there was no striking likeness. Each 
of these three men had a singularly slow glance. 
They raised their eyes to one's face rather after 
the manner of a whipped dog, and when looking 
up there was noticeable a droop of the lower lid 
which left a space of white below the pupil of 
the eye. It may be seen in men and women 
who have passed through great hardship or an 
unspeakable sorrow. Such eyes as these speak 
for themselves. One can tell at once that they 
have at one time or other looked upon something 
very unpleasant. 

It was not yet seven o’clock, but Easton ap- 
peared in no way surprised or disconcerted at 
the early arrival of his guests. He was appar- 
ently acquainted with the etiquette of the nation 
to which they belonged. Presently a servant en- 
tered the room bearing a tray upon which were 
bottles containing liqueurs, and a few small 
plates of biscuits. This was set down upon a 
side-table, and each guest in turn helped himself 
without invitation. They did this quite naturally. 
In Russia hospitality is differently understood and 
dispensed. 

While this preliminary course was under dis- 
cussion, the door was thrown open, and Tyars 


SEVEN MEN 


97 

entered the room, closely followed by Oswin 
Grace. 

Strange to say an introduction was neces- 
sary between Grace and the American. Guest 
and host met for the first time. Then followed 
a general introduction, and it is worthy of note 
that the three younger foreigners instantly 
grouped themselves round the young officer. 
Their taciturnity was at once laid aside, and they 
chatted cheerfully and intelligently with the 
stranger until dinner was announced. 

There were thus seven partakers of the good 
things provided by a neighbouring confectioner 
— four Russians, two Englishmen, and an Amer- 
ican. There had been no secrecy about their 
coming; no mysterious taps at the door, no 
strange-sounding passwords. Moreover, the 
conversation was of a simple, straightforward 
nature, without dramatic relief in the way of 
ambiguous and irrelevant remarks respecting the 
length of some allegorical night and the approach 
of a symbolic dawn. Some astute reader has no 
doubt been on the alert for pages back, looking 
for these inevitable signs of a Nihilistic novel. 
But this is no such novel, and these seven gen- 
tlemen were not Nihilists. If the motive that 
brought them together had nothing in common 
with the maintenance of law, the fault lay in the 
utter futility of the law, and not in their desire to 
frustrate it. 

It has already been noted that Oswin Grace 


98 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

had not previously made the acquaintance of 
Easton, his host on this occasion, and the addi- 
tional statement is worthy of attention that Tyars 
had in no way influenced the young sailor. He 
had merely handed him the formal invitation, 
adding that the dinner was an excuse for calling 
together a certain number of men for the pur- 
pose of laying before them the details of a great 
scheme. He further represented that an accept- 
ance of the invitation was in no way binding as 
to future movements, and in no degree a com- 
mittal to enter into the scheme propounded. 

Upon this footing Oswin Grace accepted the 
invitation. It may appear that he was inveigled 
into a wild scheme by foul means, but to this 
construction both Easton and Tyars were delib- 
erately blind. Tyars had settled in his own mind 
that the naval officer was a fit and good man for 
his purpose, and that appeared to be sufficient 
salve for his own conscience. A man who is 
fully absorbed in some great plan and throws 
himself wholly and entirely into it, must be held 
free from blame if he drag others with him. 
Failure comes to some, of course, and we often 
know not why; but most of us have perforce to 
shut our eyes to the possibility of its advent all 
through life. The fear of responsibility is the 
greatest drag upon human ambition that exists, 
and those men who suffer from it never make a 
forward step in the world, never rise above the 
dense level of mediocrity, never leave the ranks 


SEVEN MEN 


99 

of those human cattle who are content to be 
dumb and driven all their lives. 

After dinner, when cigarettes had been pro- 
duced, Easton at last condescended to explana- 
tion. Chairs had been drawn round the fire; the 
cigarette-box stood upon the mantelpiece, wine- 
glasses and decanters on the table behind. While 
he spoke, the American kept his eyes fixed upon 
the fire. He smoked several cigarettes during the 
course of his remarks, and at times he moved his 
limbs nervously, after the manner of one who is 
more highly strung than muscular. 

‘‘Gentlemen,” he said, in his peculiar slow 
drawl, and an immediate silence followed. 
“Gentlemen, I asked you to come here to-night 
for a special purpose, and not from the warmth 
of my own heart.” He paused, and his six 
listeners continued smoking in a contemplative 
way which promised little interruption. “What 
I am going to tell you cannot be quite new to 
some, while to others I surmise that it will be 
very new. I won’t apologize for talking about 
myself, because it is a thing I always do. 

“ There is a country in the map called the Dark 
Continent, but during the last few years it has 
come under my notice that Africa is as light as 
the heavenly paths compared to another land 
nearer to this old country. I mean Siberia. 
Now, I am not going to talk about Siberia, be- 
cause there are four men in this room who know 
more than 1 do. In fact they know too much, 


100 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


and it would not be a gentlemanly action to try 
and touch the feelings of some to the discomfort 
of others. Before I go on I will explain for a 
spell who we all are. Four of us are Russians. 
Of these four, one has a wife living in the 
Siberian mines, condemned by mistake; a second 
has a father living in a convict prison, almost on 
the edge of an Arctic sea; a third has been there 
himself. These three undertake what may be 
called the desperate part of our scheme. The 
fourth Russian is a gentleman who has the 
doubtful privilege of being allowed to live in 
Petersburg. His task is difficult and dangerous, 
but not desperate. Two of us are Englishmen 
—one has given up the ease and luxury of the life 
of a monied British sportsman; has, in fact, be- 
come a sailor for the deliberate purpose of plac- 
ing his skill at our disposal. In addition to that 
he has opened his purse in a thoughtless and 
generous way which is not to be met with in my 
own country. Why he has done these things I 
cannot say. In Mr. Tyars’ position I certainly 
should not have done so myself. His is the only 
name I mention, because I have seen portraits of 
him in the illustrated papers, and there is no dis- 
guising who he is. The rest of us have names 
entirely unknown, or known only to the wrong 
people. Some of the Russian names, besides 
possessing this unfortunate notoriety, are quite 
beyond my powers to pronounce. The second 
Englishman is a naval officer who, having shared 


SEVEN MEN 


lOI 


considerable danger with Mr. Tyars on one occa- 
sion, may or may not think fit to throw in his 
lot with him again. His decision, while being a 
matter of great interest to us, lies entirely in his 
own hands. He is as free when he leaves this 
room as when he entered it. Lastly comes my- 
self ” 

The little face was very wistful while the thin 
lips moved and changed incessantly from gaiety 
to a great gravity. The man’s hollow cheeks were 
singularly flushed in a patchy, unnatural way. 

“I,” he continued, with a little laugh, “I, well 
— I am afraid I stay at home. I have here a doc- 
tor’s certificate showing that I should be utterly 
useless in any but a temperate climate. I am — 
consumptive.” 

He produced a paper from his pocket and held 
it in his hand upon his knee, not daring to offer 
it to any one in particular. There was a painful 
silence. No one reached out his hand for the 
certificate, and no one seemed to be able to think 
of something to say. 

At last the stout gentleman rose from his chair 
with a grunt. 

“I too stay at home, gentlemen,” he said, 
breathlessly, “and 1 have no certificate.” 

He crossed the hearth-rug, and taking the paper 
from Easton’s hand he deliberately threw it into 
the fire. 

“There,” he grunted; “the devil take your 
certificate.” 


102 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Then he sat down again, adjusting his large 
waistcoat, which had become somewhat rucked 
up, and attempted to smooth his crumpled shirt, 
v/hile the paper burnt slowly on the glowing 
coals. 

“I only wished,” said Easton, after a pause, 
“to explain why I stay at home. It is no good 
sending second-rate men out to work like this.” 

He paused and looked round. There was 
something critical in the atmosphere of the room, 
and all the seven men assembled looked at each 
other in turn. Long and searchingly each looked 
into the other’s face. If Easton had set down 
the rule that second-rate men were of no avail, 
he had certainly held closely to it. These were 
at all events first-rate men. Not talkers, but 
actors; no blusterers, but full of courage; de- 
termined, ready, and fearless. The slight barrier 
raised by the speaking of a different tongue, the 
thinking of different thoughts, seemed to have 
crumbled away, and they were as brothers. 

All was conducted with reserve and calmness. 
All things spoken were said simply. They sat 
there in their immaculate evening dress, smoking 
their cigarettes, sipping their wine — as danger- 
ous a group of men as a tyrant ever had to fear. 

“Our plans,” said Easton, “are simple. We 
fit out a ship to sail in the spring, ostensibly to 
attempt the Northeast passage to China. Her 
real object will be the rescue of a large number 
of Russian political exiles and prisoners. The 


SEVEN MEN 


103 


three younger Russians go to Siberia overland. 
Theirs is the most dangerous task of all, the larg- 
est, the most important. The fourth remains in 
Petersburg to keep up communication, to for- 
ward money, food, disguises, and — arms. Mr. 
Tyars takes command of the steamer, which is 
now almost ready for sea, and forces his way 
through the ice — God willing — to the Yana 
river.” 

Easton stopped speaking. He rose and helped 
himself to a fresh cigarette. As he returned to 
his seat he glanced inquiringly toward Oswin 
Grace, whose eyes had followed him. 

Grace removed the cigarette from his lips. 

'‘Of course, gentlemen,” he said, glancing 
comprehensively round the group, “1 go with 
Mr. Tyars.” 

“ Thanks! ” muttered Tyars shortly. 


CHAPTER X 


MISGIVINGS 

“OswiN," said Helen Grace in her convincing 
way, “has changed.*’ 

Miss Agnes Winter, to whom this remark was 
addressed, appeared somewhat inclined toward 
contradiction, but failed to carry her impulse into 
practice. 

The two ladies were seated in a comfortable 
drawing-room not far from Brook Street; the 
drawing-room of Miss Winter, who had not yet 
decided upon giving up the house in which her 
father had so recently died. At least she said 
that she had not yet decided, a statement which 
her more intimate friends were pleased to receive 
with caution. She was not the sort of person to 
hover long between two opinions; and when she 
said that her future movements were not yet de- 
cided, her keener-sighted friends knew that she 
was in reality desirous of withholding her deci- 
sion from public comment. Although no longer 
a girl, she was hardly yet of an age to keep a 
house of her own and live without an older com- 
panion. She was too beautiful for that, perhaps, 
for beautiful women cannot be so independent as 
their plainer sisters. All distinctions carry with 
104 


MISGIVINGS 


105 


them their own responsibilities; of these, the 
chief are beauty and riches. Far above genius, or 
purity, or goodness, or mere harmlessness are 
these two possessions in human eyes. Therefore 
the beautiful and the rich should be very careful. 
The old proverb which says that noblesse oblige is 
now extinct; its place taken by the tacitly ac- 
knowledged truism that richesse oblige. 

Miss Winter did not reply at all. She read her 
companion’s statement less as an implied ques- 
tion than as a text to a train of thought. Into 
thought she now therefore lapsed, her clever eyes 
half-closed, her graceful, rounded form reclining 
very comfortably in a low chair. 

“Agnes,” said Helen Grace again, with some 
sharpness, “I think Oswin has changed.” 

“ Do you, dear.? ” 

“Yes,” continued Helen, idly turning the pages 
of an illustrated paper that lay on the table near 
her. “He is different toward us all — more es- 
pecially, perhaps, toward you.” 

Miss Winter’s smooth cheeks changed colour 
slightly. She raised her eyes and looked at her 
companion, until she in turn looked up and their 
glances met. 

“ Do you not think so ? ” inquired Helen, quite 
naturally. 

“No — I think not; 1 have not noticed it. We 
have always been very good friends, you know. 
We are good friends still. There cannot well be 
much difference. People at our age do not drop 


io6 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

old friendships or make new ones so su^idenly as 
that.” r 

Helen returned to her illustrated paper. 

‘M think, - you know,” she hazarded . lightly, 
“that Os Win is not very strong. I mean . . . 
he is rather impressionable; rather apt to, be car- 
ried away by an impulse conceived on the spur 
of the moment.” 

The sun was shining in through one of the tall 
windows, in a yellow autumnal way, directly on 
to the fire, and Miss Winter rose to lower the 
blind. Then she went to the fire, and spent a 
few moments with the hearth-brush. 

“Oswin is not weak,” she said; “you are 
wrong there. As men and women go, he is 
strong. But — Claud Tyars is stronger. Mr. 
Tyars is very strong, Helen. He is one of those 
men who almost invariably influence all the lives 
that come in contact with their own. They are 
the leaven of humanity.” 

“Do you like him ?” 

Miss Winter shrugged her shoulders in a man- 
ner indicating that her life, at all events, was out 
of Tyars’ influence. 

“I like men to be strong — morally. Great 
physical strength generally finds itself accom- 
panied by density.” 

Then Claud Tyars was allowed to drop. His 
character was not further discussed, although 
both women thought of him again; Helen be- 
cause of his undoubted influence over her brother; 


MISGIVINGS 


107 

Miss Winter because, as she had said, she liked 
men to be strong. 

Both ladies were aware of the change that had 
come over the young sailor, though Miss Winter 
refused to dilate upon the subject. Both had no- 
ticed the disappearance of a certain light-hearted 
irresponsibility, which was partly constitutional, 
and partly the outcome of governmental service. 
This sense of irresponsibility is usually noticeable 
in such as are in receipt of a certain stipend in 
return for the performance of certain duties ren- 
dered to the government. The state of mind of 
such persons bears no resemblance to that of a 
man whose existence is constituted of so many 
annual balances; whose daily butter, so to speak, 
varies in thickness according to the state of trade, 
of shipping, or of the sugar-cane. 

Oswin’s preoccupation could in no way be as- 
signed to professional matters. He had influence 
at headquarters, and a very fair intelligence of his 
own. With these two, and a somewhat excep- 
tional record of service, there was no cause for 
anxiety as to the future. While the two ladies 
were thinking over these things, the object of 
their thoughts happened to be standing on the 
pavement opposite to the drawing-room window, 
near which Miss Winter was seated. When at 
length she turned her head, she unconsciously 
betrayed her thoughts. 

“There is Oswin,” she said, and her surprise 
seemed greater than the occasion demanded. 


io8 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“Is he coming in?” inquired Helen, without 
moving. 

“ Well, I suppose so. At present he is talking 
to two men, one of whom is Mr. Tyars . . . 

Helen.” 

Then Helen rose from her chair and approached 
the window, work in hand. 

“Do not let them see you,” interposed Miss 
Winter, stretching out her hand to prevent the 
girl’s further progress. 

Helen stopped, and after a glance down into 
the street continued working quietly. She did 
not, however, quit her post of observation. 

“ Why not let them see me, Agnes?” she in- 
quired without much interest. 

Because Os win is sure to look up, and if he 
looks up Mr. Tyars will do the same. Then our 
mysterious friend will take off his hat, and he 
might be constrained to come in.” 

“And,” suggested Helen, lightly, “you do not 
want him to come in. Why not ? ” 

Miss Winter laughed, and then looked gravely 
into the fire for some moments before reply- 
ing. 

“ Not yet. I do not want him to come in yet,” 
she said. “ Because I like him. Despite a slight 
feeling of resentment which I cannot get rid of, 
I like Mr. Tyars, and I suppose he is destined to 
become one of our circle. If that is the case 
there is plenty of time. He means to do it, and 
he will do it without help from us. My experi- 


MISGIVINGS 


109 


ence leads me to distrust friendships of rapid 
growth. They invariably come to an untimely 
end." 

Helen allowed her hands to drop, and ceased 
working. She looked down at the three men, 
more especially at Tyars, as if seeking a solution 
to the questions suggested by Miss Winter. 

Why should he want to become one of our 
circle.?” she inquired innocently; and the ques- 
tion caused Miss Winter to raise those clever eyes 
of hers at last. 

“My dear,” replied the elder woman, “I do 
not know.” 

There was a certain ring in her voice which 
seemed to promise that the ignorance just ac- 
knowledged was not likely to be of long dura- 
tion. What she really meant was, that at the 
moment she did not know, but that she was 
fully determined to find out. 

Of course she suspected. She would not have 
been human had she not done so. She suspected 
that Claud Tyars was determined to become one 
of their circle preparatory to becoming the hus- 
band of Helen Grace. The details of their former 
meeting at Oxford had lately come to her knowl- 
edge. Small enough details in their way, but 
not too insignificant for the attention of a woman 
of the world. A ball, a picnic, a flower-show; a 
few words exchanged at each are of course triv- 
ial matters. But such trifles have before now 
influenced many a carefully-shaped scheme of 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


I 10 

life, have undermined the loftiest ambitions, have 
turned gloomy fame into sunny insignificance. 

Miss Winter had lived to see many of her con- 
temporaries pass through this stage. Many of 
her girl friends had suddenly ceased to crave for 
artistic and literary fame. Among the sterner 
contemporaries there were a number now who 
appeared to be quite content with remunerative 
commercial occupations and easy government 
offices. In face of this experience it was only 
natural to class Claud Tyars among the rest, to 
mentally specify him as a man in possession of 
certain faculties above the average, and conse- 
quently as one who at an earlier period had 
cherished ambitions. These, like all youthful 
aspirations, were now fleeing before the practical 
thoughtfulness of middle age. They were giv- 
ing place to a comfortable desire for contentment 
and ease. 

This was Miss Winter’s estimate of Tyars. 
The thing, she argued to herself, lay in a nut- 
shell. The memory of Helen Grace had never 
quite left him. It had survived his young ambi- 
tions, and chance had done the rest. Tyars’ 
peculiar friendship for Oswin was a mere means 
toward the end. But this practical young woman 
was far too astute to set down Tyars as an or- 
dinary man. There was something about him 
which she could not understand. It could not 
be only his supposed love for Helen that gave 
him his singular air of purpose.- Had he been a 


MISGIVINGS 


1 1 1 

boy his whole being might thus have been ab- 
sorbed in a first love, but he was unquestionably 
over thirty years of age, and men of such years 
are dignified even in love. 

Agnes Winter had given greater thought to 
this man than she was quite aware of. She was 
a quick thinker, and while her steady white fin- 
gers were employed in work her busy brain 
wandered far afield. She had sought right and 
left for a motive in Claud Tyars' existence. He 
was not of a literary mind, she knew that. He 
had not roamed about the world looking for 
something or somebody to write about, as many 
do. He was no modern knight-errant seeking 
adventure by sea and land. His life now was 
on the surface that of a well-to-do idle man of 
the world. He set up his booth in Vanity Fair 
as a lounger, and sought to impose upon the 
world. The more Miss Winter meditated the 
stronger grew her conviction that the idleness of 
Claud Tyars was a gigantic fraud, and when she 
informed Helen that she would rather that he did 
not come in, she knew in her heart that she had 
diverged slightly from the paths of Truth. 


CHAPTER XI 


ON THE TRACK 

In the meantime the three men showed signs 
of a move. Oswin stepped a little toward the 
edge of the pavement, and in doing so exposed 
the face and form of the third man to the view 
of the two ladies. This third person was Mat- 
thew Mark Easton, as yet a stranger to Miss 
Winter and Helen. 

“What a peculiar-looking man!” said Helen 
at once. “ Who is he 

Miss Winter did not know. She said so indif- 
ferently, and then accorded him her full attention 
for some moments. 

“A friend of Mr. Tyars, I suppose,” she said 
at length. “He is like a very gentlemanly 
monkey.” 

Oswin was evidently persuading Tyars to come 
with him to call on Miss Winter, and Tyars was 
with equal evidence refusing. 

At length Oswin gave up persuading, and with 
a nod left the two men to continue their way. 

Helen and Miss Winter had watched this pan- 
tomime without comment, and its issue called 
forth no remark. They merely drew back into 
the room and recommenced their work. 


II2 


ON THE TRACK 


113 

Oswin Grace was shown in a moment later. 
He shook hands with Miss Winter and accorded 
to his sister a little nod, which seemed to indi- 
cate that her presence had been expected. 

‘‘It is nice,” he said, rubbing his brown hands 
cheerily, “to see a fire. Outside it is simply 
suicidal. Such weather almost justifies the lay- 
ing of violent hands upon oneself — just about 
this time in the afternoon. 1 should do it myself 
were 1 deprived of this fire, your society, and the 
anticipation of tea.” 

“Ring the bell then,” replied Miss Winter, 
“and your anticipation shall be realized.” 

The young sailor obeyed, and returned to his 
station upon the hearth-rug with that breezy en- 
ergy which can only be tolerated in small men. 
A large, energetic man is a nuisance and an 
anomaly. 

“I have,” he said, “just left Tyars.” 

It was a pity that he involuntarily glanced to- 
ward the window, because both ladies saw it, 
and the action betrayed the small fact that his 
failure to mention the presence of a third person 
was intentional. 

Of course this suppression was fatal. It had 
the natural effect of arousing the curiosity of both 
women, and the curiosity of a woman of the 
world is a thing of which it is wise to be afraid. 

In her own mind Miss Winter pigeon-holed the 
gentlemanly little man of unprepossessing ex- 
terior as a person to be investigated. She 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


114 

promptly leapt to the conclusion that this man 
was in some way connected with Claud Tyars 
and Claud Tyars’ possible purpose in life. 

“ When,” she asked, innocently, “ is Mr. Tyars 
going to sea again 

Oswin Grace changed colour. The brown 
sunburn had vanished to a certain extent during 
the gloom of the last few weeks, and beneath it 
the little sailor’s skin was soft and delicate; the 
sort of skin that blushes easily. 

“Do you know,” he said, with forced gaiety, 
“ I have never asked him. One is apt to forget 
that he ever was a sailor when he has a frock- 
coat, a top-hat, and gloves.” 

“ I do not believe that he ever was a real 
sailor,” said Miss Winter, casually. “He may 
have navigated a ship, and boxed the compass, 
or taken in the weather-brace, or whatever sail- 
ors do at sea, but I do not call him a sailor.” 

Oswin Grace laughed and murmured — 

“ Perhaps not! ” Then he changed the subject 
with evident relief. “Ah, here is tea.” 

“ I should say,” she observed, cunningly, “ that 
you are an infinitely better sailor than Mr. Tyars.” 

Oswin rose to the gaudy bait at once, with 
that same eagerness which you, my brother, and 
I display when a pretty woman flatters our vanity. 

“Oh no,” replied he, unguardedly; “I do not 
think so. He is one of the boldest sailors I 
have ever met; no man carries on like Tyars, 
but ...” 


ON THE TRACK 


15 


. “ Carries on! ” interrupted Miss Winter, with a 
laugh. “I should not have taken him for that 
sort of man.” 

“Carries sail at night, 1 mean,” explained the 
young fellow. 

“ Ah, I see. Will you have some more tea ? ” 

After she had poured out a fresh cup she re- 
turned to the charge, casting a quick glance to- 
ward Helen, who was working with extraordi- 
nary enthusiasm. 

“You said ‘but’ just now,” she observed. 
“What was the sequence of that suggestive 
‘ but ’ ? ” 

Oswin Grace appeared quite willing to talk 
now. His reserve was not proof against Miss 
Winter’s unscrupulous approaches. 

“Well,” he answered slowly, as if considering 
his remarks, “ I think it is that he has not known 
failure. He appears to have been invariably suc- 
cessful.” 

“More people,” said Miss Winter, in her de- 
cisive way, “ have come to grief through success 
than through failure.” 

“Not that I think that Tyars will come to 
grief at all,” said Oswin, hastily and unguard- 
edly. He stopped short, and there was an awk- 
ward pause for a moment. Both ladies were 
working with a suspicious indifference to the 
conversation. 

“1 mean,” he continued, more calmly, “that 
he will probably succeed all through life in what- 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


1 16 

ever he undertakes. Have you ever noticed his 
memory ? ” 

“Ye — s,” acquiesced Miss Winter, threading 
her needle. “It is a singular memory; and I 
suppose memory is a gift which cannot lie fallow 
like others— like singing, or writing, or painting. 
It must be always at work, and one never knows 
when it may come to the fore.” 

Oswin Grace had no taste for the deeper re- 
searches of human science. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I suppose so. As for me, I 
have no memory at all. In fact, all my gifts lie 
fallow; they are of the unobtrusive kind, so un- 
obtrusive, in fact, that their presence is not even 
suspected of the multitude.” 

As Helen had told her friend plainly, there was 
a difference in Oswin’s manner, but this differ- 
ence was not openly investigated. There could, 
however, be only one explanation of it, and both 
women seized upon this unhesitatingly. 

Helen was not subtle enough to attach impor- 
tance to a small detail which had almost vanished 
from her memory. She had detected at the first 
meeting of Claud Tyars and Miss Winter signs 
of jealousy on the part of her brother. These 
the young sailor had suppressed as well as he 
could, but the scrutiny of his sister had penetrated 
through the veil of his reserve. This jealousy 
was now conspicuously absent. Oswin seemed 
to find pleasure in talking of Tyars to Miss Win- 
ter. 


ON THE TRACK 


117 

Now jealousy is a passion that never dies. 
While the cause of it is at hand, it lives and 
thrives. Helen noticed this absence, and it served 
in some degree to confirm her conviction that 
her brother had ceased to love Miss Winter. 
She did not know that dead love or dying love is 
untouched by jealousy. She did not know that 
jealousy must assuredly die long before love, and 
not shortly before. She did not know that a 
youthful infatuation, under its more dignified 
name of a first love, is a thing that perishes more 
often in proximity than in absence. 

Miss Winter might have known more about 
these matters had she been able to take note of 
them from Helen’s point of view. She was, 
however, the object of Oswin’s short-lived jeal- 
ousy, and had therefore failed to notice it. She 
was too experienced, possessed too much self- 
respect, to allow any person to guess that she 
also detected a difference in Oswin’s manner to- 
ward herself. This fact alone betrayed that she 
assigned the same reason to the change as that 
assigned by Helen Grace. 

She made no sign whatever; no slightest dif- 
ference in her treatment of Oswin. Whether 
there had been pleasure for her in the knowledge 
of this man’s silent love, or mere indifference, it is 
hard to say. Women of thirty who have lived 
every year, every day of their life since twenty, 
hold different views of the great universal human 
Motive than those held by young girls. There is 


ii8 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

a certain independence, a confidence in the pos- 
session of the power of inspiring love, in beauti- 
ful girls, which is never found in beautiful 
women. Hence if the latter are desirous of still 
exercising this great feminine pleasure and de- 
light, they are, as a rule, not only pathetic ob- 
jects, but disagreeable ones to contemplate. Thus 
it is that a plain woman of thirty to forty is a 
pleasanter companion, a better woman, and a 
more profitable study than one who is or has 
been beautiful. 

Miss Winter had reached that age at which 
both men and women begin to wonder less 
acutely whether their life is endowed with an ob- 
ject. She was therefore a contented creature; 
contented with small pleasures and trivial occupa- 
tions; unharassed by great ambitions, undis- 
turbed by envy, untouched by jealousy. No out- 
ward influence seemed capable of affecting her 
gentle serenity. Admiration caused no flutter 
within her heart. She had tasted it too often, 
drinking it deeply. She was only thirty, and 
when she wished she could make herself look 
much younger, for her figure, though smoothly 
rounded, was lithe, and her cheeks were still soft 
and full. 


CHAPTER XII 


CARTE AND TIERCE 

It was almost a month later that Matthew 
Mark Easton stepped into the circle of which 
Miss Winter was to a certain extent the leading 
spirit. This lady had not been five minutes in 
the brilliantly-lighted rooms of a huge picture 
gallery in Pall Mall, before she singled out the 
little American. He happened to be talking to 
another insignificant, unobtrusive man, who 
tugged nervously at a gray mustache while he 
listened. This was one of the ablest envoys ever 
accredited to the Court of St. James by the United 
States. 

Miss Winter knew most of the faces in the 
room, and among others that of the American 
Minister. Moreover, she recollected perfectly the 
form and features of Matthew Mark Easton. 

The occasion was a vast assembly of the fash- 
ionable, diplomatic, artistic, and literary worlds 
for the collection of money and ideas toward the 
solution of a social problem now happily almost 
forgotten. That the majority of those assembled 
did not care a rap for the social problem was 
nothing surprising. In this they were only sym- 
bolic of the rest of mankind. Very few of us do 


120 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


trouble our heads about social problems. We 
leave them to those acrimonious and long-winded 
gentlemen who write for the reviews. The 
tickets were a guinea each ; there were choice re- 
freshments at a stated and ruinous price; soft 
carpets, an exhibition of pictures, and the same 
of dresses. Several gentlemen also read papers 
on the subject under discussion, but that was in 
the small room at the end where no one ever 
went. 

Claud Tyars was there of course. During the 
last month or two he had been going out so 
much that one almost expected to meet him, just 
as one expects to meet certain well-known faces 
at every assembly. Miss Winter saw him imme- 
diately after noticing Matthew Mark Easton, and 
before long he began to make his way across the 
room toward her. Wherever they had met dur- 
ing the last few weeks, Tyars had invariably 
succeeded in exchanging a few words with Miss 
Winter, seeking her out with equal persistence, 
whether Helen Grace were with her or no. If, 
as the lady opined, he was determined to become 
one of their intimate friends, he displayed no in- 
decent haste, no undue eagerness; and in so do- 
ing he was perhaps following the surest method. 
He had not hitherto showed the slightest desire 
to cross the line which separates acquaintance- 
ship from friendship. 

There was a mutual attraction existing between 
these two capable, practical people. There was 


CARTE AND TIERCE 


121 


a vacant seat, for a wonder, beside Miss Winter 
which Tyars promptly appropriated. 

“Who,” she asked, after a few conventionali- 
ties had been exchanged, “is that gentleman 
talking to the American Minister, and apparently 
making him laugh, which is, I should think, no 
easy matter ? ” 

“He is generally making some one laugh,” re- 
plied Tyars. “His name is Easton — Matthew 
Mark Easton. The sort of name that sticks in 
the wheel-work of one’s memory. A name one 
does not forget.” 

“And,” added Miss Winter, lightly, “a face 
that one does not forget. He interests me — a 
little.” 

Tyars laughed at the qualification implied by 
the addition to the last two words. 

“That is always something,” he said. “A 
small mercy. He is one of my greatest friends — 
may I introduce him ? ” 

“Certainly,” murmured the lady, with a little 
bow of the head, and then she changed the sub- 
ject at once. 

“Helen,” she said, “is not here to-night.” 

Tyars looked befittingly disappointed. 

“She does not always care to leave the ad- 
miral, and he objects to dissipation on a large 
scale. Is that not so ? ” he suggested. 

“Yes. That is the case to-night.” 

She wondered a little at his intimate knowledge 
of Helen’s thoughts, but said nothing. It was 


122 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


probable that he had heard this from Oswin, and 
his singular memory had retained it. 

“Miss Grace,” said Tyars, presently, “has a 
strong sense of duty, and is unconscious of it. 
An unconscious sense of duty is one of the best 
of human motives. At least it seems so to me.” 

Although Agnes Winter was bowing and 
smiling to an old lady near at hand, she had fol- 
lowed him perfectly. 

“Well,” she answered, “a sense of duty of 
any description is not a bad thing in these times. 
Indeed,” she added, turning suddenly toward 
him, “a motive is in itself rather rare. Not many 
of us have motives.” 

Her manner implied as plainly as if she had 
spoken it: “We are not, all of us, like you.” 

There was something in the expression of his 
eyes that recalled suddenly their first meeting at 
the precise moment when he, entering the draw- 
ing-room, overheard a remark of hers respecting 
himself. It was not an unpleasant expression, 
but it led one to feel instinctively that this man 
might under some circumstances be, what is 
tersely called in France, difficult. It was merely 
a suggestion, cloaked beneath his usual repose of 
manner, but she had known many men of his 
class, some of whom had made a name in their 
several callings, and this same suggestion of 
stubbornness had come beneath her quick, fleet- 
ing notice before. 

He looked gravely round the room, as if seek- 


CARTE AND TIERCE 12 ) 

ing to penetrate beneath the smiles and vapid af- 
fectation. 

“Oh,” he said, placidly, “I am not so sure. 
There are a good many people who pride them- 
selves upon steering a clear course. The prevail- 
ing motive to-night is perhaps a desire to prove a 
superiority over one’s neighbours, but it is still a 
motive.” 

Miss Winter looked at him critically. 

“Remember,” she said, warningly, “that this 
is my element. The motives of all these people 
are my motives — their pleasures, my pleasures — 
their life, my life.” 

“Apparently so,” he replied, ambiguously. 

“So that,” she pursued, “lam indicted of the 
crime of endeavouring to prove my superiority 
over my neighbours.” 

He laughed in an abrupt way. 

“No more than myself.” 

“That is mere prevarication,” she persisted 
gaily. “Tell me, please, in what particular this 
coveted superiority lies.” 

“ In a desire to appear more aimless than you 
are,” he returned gravely. 

She laughed. 

“I deny that. I plead not guilty,” she said. 
“I am a person of many motives, but the many 
receive their life from one source. That one 
source is an earnest endeavour to please myself 
in all things, to crowd as much pleasure and as 
much excitement into a lifetime as it will hold.” 


24 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


^‘Then,” he said after a pause, ^‘you are only 
one of the crowd after all.” 

That is all, Mr. Tyars. Did you ever suspect 
me of being anything else 

I believe I did,” he replied, with a more direct 
gaze than is allowed by the dictates of polite so- 
ciety. 

She returned the gaze with serenity. 

“Then please get rid of the idea,” she said 
significantly. 

There was a short pause, but it was not the 
silence of people who have nothing more to say 
to each other. 

“ Shall I,” inquired Tyars, rising suddenly, “go 
and find Easton ? I should like you to know him.” 

“I shall be most happy,” she said, with one of 
her gracious little bows. As he moved away, 
she called him back almost as if she were loth to 
let him go, as if there were something still left 
unsaid between them. 

“Tell me,” she said, in a gaily confidential 
tone, “before you go, what is his speciality. I 
always like to know a stranger’s chief character- 
istic, or if he has no characteristics, his particular 
hobby — whether, I mean, he .is a botanist or a 
yachtsman, a fisherman or a politician. It is so 
much more convenient, you understand, to know 
beforehand upon what topics one must conceal 
one’s ignorance.” 

She finished with a little laugh, and looked up 
into his face with keen worldliness. 


CARTE AND TIERCE 


125 

The meaning of the glance was obvious, and 
he met her gaze with significant coolness. 

“No, Miss Winter,” he said, deliberately; 
“ you have not found out my particular hobby or 
my chief characteristic yet.” 

She laughed without embarrassment. 

“Not yet,” she admitted. 

Then he returned to the original question. 

“I think,” he said, “that Easton has no hob- 
bies. His speciality is eloquence. He could al- 
most persuade a certain stubborn quadruped to 
part with its hind legs. He was destined by the 
positive department of Providence for an orator, 
but the negative department, with its usual dis- 
crimination, gave him a weak chest, and there- 
fore he is nothing.” 

“Absolutely nothing 

“Well,” answered Tyars, “he is an American 
merchant.” 

She nodded her head in a practical way. 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ Now I know some- 
thing of him. I have to conceal beneath wreathed 
smiles the fact that I know absolutely nothing of 
American commerce, American politics, or ora- 
tory. I wonder,” she added as an afterthought, 
“whether there is anything he can persuade me 
into doing.” 

“He might,” suggested Tyars, “persuade you 
into the cultivation of a motive.” 

Then he turned and left her. 

Matthew Mark Easton saw him approaching, 


126 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


and broke off rather suddenly a waning conversa- 
tion with his Minister. 

“Easton,” said Tyars, “come here. I want to 
introduce you to Miss Winter.” 

“ Miss Winter,” returned the American; “ omi- 
nous name. Who is she ? ” 

“She is a person of considerable influence in 
the Grace household. Do you understand ?” 

“No,” replied Easton, pleasantly, “I don’t.” 

“ It is in Miss Winter’s power to deprive us of 
Oswin Grace,” explained Tyars, “if she cares to 
exercise that power.” 

Easton’s face expressed somewhat ludicrously 
a passing consternation. 

“Hang these women!” he muttered. “Does 
she,” he inquired, “suspect something ? ” 

“I think so,” was the reply, “and, moreover, 
she is a clever woman; so be careful.” 

Easton laughed reassuringly. He was not 
afraid of clever women. Miss Winter must al- 
most have heard the laugh, while there was still 
a smile on his face as he bowed before her. 

“I have never,” he said, as he seated himself, 
“been at an entertainment of this description be- 
fore. I am only a beginner. In our country we 
manage things differently; and I cannot yet un- 
derstand how so much talking and so little action 
can benefit any cause.” 

“ But,” said Miss Winter, “you are not new to 
England. There is nothing about you to lead 
one to that conclusion.” 


CARTE AND TIERCE 


127 


“ Thank you,” he replied, gravely. “ My claw- 
hammer coat was made in Piccadilly, so I sup- 
pose it is all right.” 

He looked down at the garment in question, 
and dusted the sleeve lightly with a perfectly 
gloved hand. 

Do you like it ? ” he inquired, simply. 

Miss Winter was becoming interested. She 
therefore quelled a sudden desire to laugh, and 
answered — 

“Yes; it is a very nice coat.” 

“I am not,” he said, after a pause, “new to 
England, but I have not moved — 1 think you call 
it — much in London society. I suppose the men 
do all the moving in your society ? — they seem 
to. The women sit mostly still and wait till 
the men come to them. With us it is differ- 
ent.” 

“The women,” replied this womanly lady, 
“ are beginning to move with us, and from what 
I have seen of the result, 1 rather incline toward 
the old policy of sitting still.” 

He turned and looked at her with a little nod. 
There was in his queer restless eyes a distinct 
glance of approval. 

“Yes,” he said, “yes. So I should surmise. 
Our ladies are very fascinating, and very clever, 
and all that, but — but the young men do not 
seem to make such a pretty show of loving them 
as we read of in olden times. At all events they 
do not continue to show them that regard which. 


128 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

I remember, my father showed toward my 
mother.’' 

“I myself am a humble admirer of the wom- 
anly school.” 

“And I,” added Easton. “ Now,” he contin- 
ued, after a pause, “do tell me. What do all these 
good people think they are doing here to-night .?” 

“They think, firstly,” replied Miss Winter, 
“ that they are getting their names into the fash- 
ionable society papers. Secondly, that their nat- 
ural or artificial adornment is creating a distinct 
impression. Thirdly, and lastly, that they are 
assisting in some indefinite way toward the solu- 
tion of a problem of which the rudiments are en- 
tirely unknown.” 

“ Then in England, as well as in my own 
country, charity is a recognized plaything of so- 
ciety,” suggested Easton. 

“Yes. We take it up in late autumn and 
winter, when there are no races, nor regattas, 
nor lawn-tennis parties.” 

“Ah, then,” said the American, “society is 
very much the same here as elsewhere.” 

At this moment Oswin Grace passed within 
earshot of them. He heard the remark, and rec- 
ognized the voice. When he turned, his sur- 
prise at seeing Miss Winter and Easton together 
was so marked as to cause a little frown to pass 
across the queer, wistful face of the American. 
He returned the young Englishman’s comprehen- 
sive bow, however, with perfect equanimity. 


CARTE AND TIERCE 


129 

“You know Os win Grace?” inquired Miss 
Winter. 

“ Oh yes,” was the cool reply, “ Tyars brought 
him to my rooms one evening.” 

Miss Winter skillfully concealed her eagerness. 

“ They are great friends,” she said, lightly. 

“Ye — es. Yes. Tyars constantly talks of 
him.” 

“I suppose,” continued Miss Winter, in the 
same indifferently conversational way, “ that they 
have many interests in common; both being 
sailors. At least, I believe Claud Tyars considers 
himself a sailor now.” 

This was clever, and the wary little man 
paused. He felt convinced that Miss Winter 
knew less of the past life of Tyars than she 
would have him believe. Moreover, he suspected 
that she had never hitherto called him Claud 
Tyars. The implied familiarity was a trap, 
womanly, clever, and subtle; but Easton avoided 
it with equal skill. He maintained an easy si- 
lence. Immediately afterward, however, he made 
a blunder. 

“ Oswin,” said Miss Winter, “is a great friend 
of mine, and I think Helen is my greatest friend.” 

“A sister?” inquired Easton, rashly. 

“Yes. Mr. Tyars has not spoken of her 
then ? ” 

“No. Tyars did not tell me that Grace has a 
sister.” 

There was a short pause. Perhaps the Ameri- 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


130 

can heard the little sigh of relief given by his 
companion, marking, as it were, the relaxation 
of an effort. Such a sigh as an athlete gives 
when he has scored a success and his weary 
muscles fall into repose. He became instantly 
conscious of his blunder. He had been outwitted 
by this pleasant woman. He — Matthew Mark 
Easton— a born intriguer, a man with real genius 
for conspiracy. 

“Ah!" reflected Miss Winter, “why has Mr. 
Tyars omitted to make mention of Helen’s exis- 
tence?" And with feminine intuition she made 
a hasty mental note of this important item. 

“So," mused Easton, during the same pause, 
“there is a Miss Grace, and Tyars never men- 
tioned her. I must be very careful. Seems to 
me that there are two men at stake here, not 
one; and I cannot afford to lose two sailors such 
as these." 

Miss Winter was now drawn into a vortex of 
light-hearted idlers, bent upon a systematic in- 
spection of the pictures; and from their ranks 
Easton took the first opportunity of dropping 
away unobserved. They did not speak again 
during the evening ; but the little seed was sown 
— the little seed of mutual esteem or mutual dis- 
like, as the case may be, which under either cir- 
cumstance seems to draw some people together 
here in life; to spread its subtle tendrils, inter- 
twined and knit together, until their united 
strength is a thing undreamt of. 


CARTE AND TIERCE 


131 

“I seem,” reflected Easton, subsequently, over 
a very good cigar, “to have met that little Eng- 
lish lady somewhere before. Her way of speak- 
ing, and her method of expressing herself in a 
cheery way, as if nothing mattered very much, 
are familiar to me. I certainly have not seen her 
before in this vale of sorrow, as the lady writers 
call it. I wonder where I have met her.” 

It happened to fall to the lot of Claud Tyars 
to shut the door of Miss Winter’s comfortable 
brougham; while Grace, who had helped her in, 
stood back and nodded a good-night. 

The lady leant back against the soft cushions, 
and drew her cloak more snugly round her. The 
flashing light of street-lamp or carriage showed 
her face to be grave and thoughtful. She was 
realizing that Claud Tyars was something more 
than a mere lover of intrigue, making a mystery 
out of a very ordinary love affair. She was rec- 
ognizing now that matters were more serious 
than she had at first considered them. 


CHAPTER XIII 

A MEETING 

Social questions are of very slow growth. We 
fondly imagine that, in our days, that vague 
movement which we call Progress is making 
greater strides than hitherto. But if we judge 
from results it would seem evident that the world 
moves on at the same steady pace which marked 
its progress in olden times. 

The greatest movement of the generation, at 
least the movement which has attracted the 
greatest amount of attention, has undoubtedly 
been the education of women. They demanded 
the same privileges as possessed by their sterner 
competitors. These have to all intents and pur- 
poses been granted them, and what is the result ? 
George Eliots are no more numerous. The old 
Masters in Art and Music sleep on securely, for 
their fame is not yet dimmed by the productions 
of women who have had the incentive of their 
example to assist them. 

Miss Winter sometimes fell a victim to long- 
ings for labour. She sometimes felt useless, and 
looked beyond the work that lay at hand for 
heavier labour. When she heard of good works 
done by women, she longed to do something also. 

132 


A MEETING 


U3 

She gave way to this weakness, and she was 
very quiet about it. When the paroxysm was 
upon her she put on a thick veil, her quietest 
dress, and took the omnibus to Tower Hill. 

She was too well acquainted with the world to 
go empty-handed and to make those trivial mis- 
takes by which many well-meaning women re- 
duce charity to the ludicrous. She had an old 
bag especially devoted to this secret vice, for one 
cannot carry half-pounds of butter, packets of 
tea, and pounds of raw sausages in one’s best 
hand-bag. 

The recipients of her charity were a race of 
men overlooked by Charity Organizations, ig- 
nored by those bland distributors of leaflet liter- 
ature who call themselves the Sailor’s Friend. 
Very few people find themselves by accident in 
the London Dock or the St. Katherine’s Dock; in 
fact both these basins are rather difficult to find. 
Very few, therefore, know that there is such a 
being as the ship-keeper. There are many idlers 
by the riverside, on London Bridge, or the Cus- 
tom House Quay, but in the docks there are 
none. These are places where only such as have 
business to transact are in the habit of resorting. 
This is easily explained by a note of the fact that 
all the docks are private property, and therefore 
closed to the general public. 

The ship-keeper is a strange, amphibious crea- 
ture. His calling is afloat, his business on the 
waters, and yet he is no sailor. In busier times 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


U4 

he rarely spent more than two months on board 
of one ship; now there are men living week after 
week, month after month, year after year on 
the same vessel. Many of them never set foot 
outside the dock-gates; some there are who re- 
main afloat always. There are vessels lying out in 
the middle of the basins of which the decks have 
known no other tread for years than that of the 
aged hermit living in their forecastles. Most of 
these ships have a history, but others are merely 
waiting — waiting, if you please, for better times. 

As if they could afford it; as if they could 
afford to wait for better times any more than the 
reader. For ships have but one life even as men, 
and if they are too slow, too clumsy, too heavy 
— well, they are failures, just as many are from 
the same cause. And a failure is a failure despite 
sophistry and in face of smooth phrases. We 
talk gravely or gaily of waiting for better times, 
but most are only waiting for an end of Si3me 
sort. 

Miss Winter had heard of these ships, and from 
different sources she gradually learnt that there 
were men living on board of them; men whose 
lives were almost as solitary as that of a sailor 
cast upon some desert island. It seems strange 
that within the roar of London life, almost within 
stone’s throw of the crowded East End streets, 
there should be men living day after day without 
speaking a word to their fellow-creatures. For 
if they do not choose to come ashore, certainly 


A MEETING 


U5 

no one will trouble to go on board and see them. 
The butcher makes his daily round of the dock 
with barrow and knife like a cat’s-meat man, but 
on twelve shillings a week one does not expect 
meat every day. 

In course of time she evolved the idea of going 
to the docks to see if it was difficult to get on 
board these ships, and there she discovered that 
there was nothing easier. It was merely a mat- 
ter of paying, as it is in every other part of the 
world. 

At first her advances caused consternation, but 
woman-like she gradually made her way, never 
being guilty of one retrograde step. A few dis- 
trusted her motives, some thought she was merely 
a fool, others concluded she had “got religion." 
These latter were the first to welcome her. The 
explanation was so simple, and it had served to 
account for stranger conduct than this. They 
had, in their time, come across the malady in a 
more virulent form. 

One and all appreciated the butter and the 
sausages. Some made use of the soap, and a 
few read the newspapers she brought them. 

Soon Miss Winter found that her advent was 
looked for. The responsibilities of beneficence 
began to make themselves felt. She commenced 
to know personally these quaint old hermits, and 
found that there were sincere and insincere ship- 
keepers — ship-keepers who were interesting and 
others who were mere nonentities. On the whole 


1^6 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

she gave preference to those who took the butter 
and the sausages and left the soap. These latter 
were old fellows who had never washed, and 
did not see the good of changing their habits in 
old age. This conservatism indicated a character 
worthy of admiration, and superior to that of 
such as asked for more soap and. hinted at tracts. 

She became more and more interested in this 
work, and lapsed into the habit of going to the 
docks once a week at least. As Claud Tyars 
frequented the same spot with an equal regu- 
larity, their meeting was only a question of time. 

They had missed each other several times by 
the merest chance, but at last they came face to 
face in a most undeniable manner. The morn- 
ing was rather foggy, and in consequence the 
dock was more silent and sleepier than usual. 
Miss Winter having just left a boat, was mount- 
ing the steep wet steps from the edge of the 
slimy water when a tall man, emerging from the 
fog, came to the top of the stairs and hailed the 
boat. 

“Wait a minute,” he said; “I want you.” 

He came down a step or two and stood to one 
side to let Miss Winter pass. In doing so he 
looked at her, and she, glancing up to thank him, 
gave a little start. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “You — here — Mr. 
Tyars.” 

He raised his hat without betraying any sur- 
prise. 


A MEETING 


U7 

“Yes/’ he answered, “of course. The docks 
have a natural attraction for me — a sailor.” 

“I forgot,” she said, looking calmly at him, 
“that you were a sailor.” 

She had been betrayed into surprise, but in a 
moment her usual alertness returned to her. She 
passed on, and he followed her. 

“ Are you alone ? ” he inquired. 

“Oh yes,” she replied, lightly. M am quite 
at home here. I come nearly every week and 
interrupt the meditations of the ship-keepers. I 
look after their temporal welfare. It is quite my 
own idea, and I assure you that I have no con- 
nection with any philanthropic society.” 

“Tracts ?” he inquired shortly. 

“No; no tracts,” she replied. “ Sausages, but- 
ter, and soap — essentially of this world.” 

He was walking beside her, suiting his step to 
hers with an implied sense of protection, almost 
of approbation, which annoyed her. 

“There may be,” he suggested, half-ironically, 
“a hidden motive in the soap.” 

“But there is not,” she replied, sharply. “I 
advocate cleanliness only. Personally I prefer 
the dirty ones.” 

“Probably,” he said, “you do a great deal of 
good. These poor fellows lead a very lonely 
life. You must seem to them like a being from 
another world.” 

“So I am, Mr. Tyars,” she said, still upholding 
her work. “ Quite another world.” 


13S PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

Then she suddenly laid aside her gravity with 
that strange inconsequence which is one of the 
many important differences between the male 
and female mind. 

“You speak feelingly,” she continued, in 
thinly-veiled mockery. “ Perhaps you have been 
a ship-keeper yourself! You seem to have been 
a good many things.” 

“Yes,” was his calm reply, “I have. I was 
once a ship-keeper in the Southern Atlantic.” 

She was silenced. The details of his terrible 
experience on board the fever-stricken merchant- 
man had never been vouchsafed, but it was not 
difficult to imagine them from the official account 
he had been forced to publish. 

Suddenly this cheerful little lady had realized 
the pettiness of her own existence, the futility of 
her own small caprice. She glanced up at him 
almost meditating an apology. Observant and 
analytical as she was, she had not yet noticed a 
fact of which Tyars was fully aware; she had 
not noticed that in her intercourse with Gaud 
Tyars she invariably began in an antagonistic 
vein, and that with equal monotony this antago- 
nism melted after a few moments. 

In one respect Tyars was a commonplace man. 
He possessed the genius of command, which is 
the genius most often encountered in the world. 
It is merely a genius of adaptation, not of crea- 
tion. Its chief characteristic is a close but un- 
conscious observation of human nature. He 


A MEETING 


*39 


understood all who came in contact with him 
much better than any one of them understood 
him. Miss Winter was conscious of a reserve in 
this man’s mind which was irrevocably closed to 
her. He casually glanced into her character in 
passing; if there was an inner motive beyond his 
fathom, he remained indifferent to its presence. 
When their paths crossed he was pleased to meet 
her, but she never flattered herself that he would 
go far out of his way to hear her opinion upon 
any subject. Had she been a young girl, this 
knowledge would have shown itself in a thou- 
sand little coquetries, or a petulant curiosity; but 
she had arrived at an age when it is frequently 
realized, even by the most beautiful, that Man 
has other interests in the world than Woman. 

“If,” she said, “I cared for horrors, I should 
ask you some day to tell me about . . . 

about those days — your ship-keeping days; but 
I hate horrors.” 

He laughed. 

“I am glad,” he said, with evident relief. “I 
hate horrors too, and should not make a pictur- 
esque story of it.” 

They walked on in silence, feeling rather more 
friendly toward each other every moment. It 
was necessary to pass beneath a crane of which 
the greasy chain hung loosely right across their 
path. Tyars stepped forward, and with a quick 
turn of the winch-handle drew the chain taut, 
and consequently out of her way. It was a mere 


140 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


incident, trivial in its way; but women note 
these trivialities, and piece them together with a 
skill and sequence which men cannot rival or 
even imitate. Tyars’ action showed an intimate 
knowledge with the smallest details of the calling 
he had chosen to follow. A landsman would 
have attempted to hold the chain back with hand 
or stick, running the risk of failing to do so, and 
incurring the certainty of covering himself with 
black oil. Tyars overcame the difficulty with 
seamanlike promptness, and although Miss Win- 
ter accorded to the action its full significance, she 
merely acknowledged the politeness that prompted 
it by a little nod. 

“If,” said Tyars, presently, “you were my 
sister, or if I were fortunate enough to possess a 
right to comment upon your actions, I should be 
strongly tempted to throw cold water upon your 
charity.” 

“Of course you would,” she replied. “Nine 
men out of ten would do the same.” 

“I hope so.” 

“I am sure of it, Mr. Tyars; and, moreover, 1 
do not defend myself. It is very difficult to find 
a channel for charitable motives to run in. At 
any rate, I do no harm to these old men.” 

“ I have no doubt you do them a great deal of 
good,” he said, rather bluntly; “but you are 
hardly the person to do it. This is not the place 
for a lady to wander about in alone. Wait 
twenty years.” 


A MEETING 


141 

She laughed, and stepped aside to hold out her 
arms in expostulation. 

“I’m not a girl,” she said; “and look at me. 
A thick veil and a clumsy old ulster without a 
waist to it. I think, indeed, it is foolish of me to 
ask you to look.” 

He did look, gravely, from the top of her sim- 
ple hat to the toes Of her small boots peeping 
out beneath the ulster. 

“It is no use,” he said; “you cannot disguise 
yourself. No woman,” he added, “with your 
. . . advantages can.” 

He was quite right. Plainness is easier to con- 
ceal than beauty. There is nothing more difficult 
to hide than a pretty face and a graceful figure. 
They walked on again. 

“If,” she said, “we waited for men to tell us 
what we can do and what we cannot, a great 
deal of good would remain undone.” 

He would not argue; and his silence softened 
her humour, for it betrayed a determination to in- 
terfere no farther. 

“It is not,” she said, continuing her defence 
with woman-like persistence, “as if I dragged 
other people into it. I do not, for instance, bring 
Helen here.” 

As she said this she glanced up at him. 

“No,” he answered calmly, returning her gaze. 

They were now at the dock-gates, and the 
constable on duty touched the brim of his helmet 
in double recognition. 


142 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


''May I call a hansom ?” inquired Tyars. 

"Thank you,” she replied. "There is one 
coming.” 

While waiting for the cab she spoke again. 

"I feel,” she said, lightly, "like a runaway 
schoolgirl. Will you please tell no tales out of 
school 

"You can trust me. Miss Winter,” he said, as 
he helped her into the cab, "to hold my tongue. 
It is one of the few accomplishments I possess.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE LAST MEETING 

^ There is no cloak for tears like laughter. He is 
a strong man who merely does nothing in the 
midst of tears. Most men either laugh or weep, 
but some there are who remain grave. 

Matthew Mark Easton was not a strong man. 
The last meeting of the association he was 
.pleased to call “Guy Fawkes” was looked for- 
ward to by him with positive dread. This was 
not the outcome of a great responsibility. He 
did not hold himself responsible for Pavloski and 
his three compatriots, for he knew well enough 
that he himself was but a means to the end. If 
these four Russians had not met with him, they 
would still have gone to Siberia; for they were 
branded, their souls were seared by the hot iron 
— the thrice-heated iron of unquenchable venge- 
ance. 

The truth was that the little American had a 
warm heart. He had learnt to like these men, to 
respect the curse of their nationality; for to him 
it was naught else than a curse. And, indeed, 
no man would willingly be a Russian. 

This meeting was the beginning of the end. 
Many times had these six, and latterly seven, men 
met in the American’s room. They were bound 
143 


144 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


together by the ties of a joint interest, by the 
riven bond of a common danger. 

To-night they were to meet again; they were 
to partake once more of the open-handed trans- 
atlantic hospitality, and in all human probability 
the same seven men would never stand under 
one roof again. Of course such things happen 
every day. It was no good waxing sentimental. 
It is much better to take it cheerfully, as did 
Matthew Mark Easton. Provide oysters and 
champagne — especially champagne, it is a rare 
specific — and crack jokes. Only do not laugh at 
them too loud and too quickly, as if it does not 
matter much about the joke so long as the laugh 
is sonorous. But above all avoid any reference 
to the future, because in the loudest of laughter 
there are pauses — some jokes fall flat, and mo- 
ments of thoughtfulness creep in. 

Sergius Pavloski was the first to arrive. Im- 
maculate, cold, and self-contained as usual; his 
old-fashioned dress clothes scrupulously brushed, 
his large amethyst shirt-studs brightly polished. 
There was a steady glitter in his eyes, but his 
manners were always suave and courtly. 

“Ah, Smith!” cried Easton; “punctual as 
usual. We business men know its value, eh ? — 
especially at meal-times. I’ve a new box of 
caviare, my boy. Found it in a German delicat- 
essen-handlung in Wardour Street. The real 
thing, in a white china box; looks like saddle- 
paste.” 


THE LAST MEETING 


M5 

He drew his guest to a little side-table, where 
liqueurs and a few delicacies were set out in the 
Russian fashion, and they gravely examined the 
caviare which had been purposely left in the 
small china box, bearing a printed label in Rus- 
sian characters, as one sees it in the Newski Pros- 
pect shop-windows. 

The interest which Pavloski displayed in this 
small waif from his own land was a trifle too 
eager to be quite natural. Easton made little 
jokes about the beneficial effect likely to accrue to 
his rusty Russian by the consumption of caviare, 
and they got through the bad quarter of an hour 
somehow, until the bell rang again. They were 
acting a part most obviously, and rather badly. 

The little office in the city had been almost 
their home for the last two years, and within its 
four bare walls they had worked together stead- 
ily, and with that restrained enthusiasm which 
turns out good labour. The two heads bowed 
together over the little box of preserved fish had 
hatched and conceived a wondrous plot. They 
had talked of many things together; had counted 
lives as other men count their money. 

Easton knew more of this man’s history than 
any other human being. He alone knew that 
Sergius Pavloski was, of all the seven associates, 
by far the most dangerous man; that to him hu- 
man life, whether his own or that of another, 
was not a sacred thing at all. And now the 
great scheme was maturing. The first decisive 


146 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

move had been made. Pavloski was to leave 
England in twenty-four hours. The little otfice 
was closed; their joint labours were finished. 

When the guests were assembled, Easton led 
the way to another room, where dinner was 
served. He had carried out his intention of offer- 
ing to his guests the best that could be procured 
for money, and full justice was done to the fare 
provided. The usual silence upon the subject of 
their meeting was observed until the meal was 
over, and all chairs were drawn round the fire. 

Then the informal proceedings commenced. 
Matthew Mark Easton was a trifle more restless 
than usual; his mobile features alternated be- 
tween grave and gay, while his dancing eyes 
were never still. He fidgeted at times with his 
slim hands, and referred constantly to the lighted 
end of his cigarette. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we have done a vast 
deal of talking, and now at last some of us are 
going into action. Of course I have done the 
most talking, and now that the time for action 
has come, I occupy a retired seat in the back- 
ground. That is the good God’s dispensation, 
not mine. But I hope that the result of all my 
talking will be useful in the hereafter. Each one 
of you knows his part, and each one of you, of 
course, will do his best; I know that — at least 1 
surmise so. The three gentlemen who leave us 
to-night for Siberia take absolutely nothing with 
them except a little money. There are no maps. 


THE LAST MEETING 


147 


no letters, no instructions, nothing that an enemy 
can get hold of. We have, however, taken 
measures to supply them with money at various 
stages of the journey. We have also completed 
a method of communication, by means of which 
the safe progress of the travellers can from time 
to time be reported to St. Petersburg, and subse- 
quently to the headquarters in London. But in 
case of partial failure — if, I mean, one of you 
should fail — it is quite understood that the others 
go on. Mr. Tyars undertakes to get his ship 
round Cape Chelyuskin, and to wait for you at the 
meeting-place arranged, namely, the western- 
most mouth of the river Yana, not far from Oust 
Yansk, where we have a good friend. On the 
tenth of July he sails from thence to complete 
the Northeast passage, and reach the coast of 
Alaska. That date, gentlemen, is fixed. If no 
one comes to .meet him he goes on alone, but he 
hopes to see you all three, and each with a party 
not exceeding fifteen persons.” 

The three men turned their dull eyes toward 
the two Englishmen seated side by side, and the 
American seeing the action paused. Uncon- 
sciously the seven men assembled had grouped 
themselves into order. The stout Russian and 
Easton were seated side by side with their backs 
to the table, and on their left were placed the 
three young Russians, while on the right the two 
British sailors sat side by side — a big man and a 
small one — the lesser and the greater power. 


148 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

These men were now seated in a warm room, 
surrounded by comfort; when next they met, if 
they were destined ever to see each other again, 
it would be far within the Arctic circle. The 
three foreigners were virtually placing their lives 
and those of their friends in the hands of these 
two resolute navigators, and they did it with the 
impassive coldness which is such a curse to the 
Slavonic race. Each pair of eyes seemed to say, 
“I wonder if you will meet us there,” but noth- 
ing more. The two sailors smiled in response. 
They belonged to a different race — a race that 
smiles but rarely laughs, that acts but rarely 
threatens, a race which (as may be learnt from 
history) has fought Nature more successfully 
than any other. And this was a fight with Na- 
ture. She is an enemy that is sometimes very 
careless, but on the other hand she knows no 
mercy. There were no protestations, no vows 
to do or die. It must be remembered that these 
conspirators belonged to the nineteenth century, 
a century much given to sliding, and little ad- 
dicted to protestations of any description. The 
three Russians merely gazed with their expres- 
sionless eyes, and the Englishmen smiled in a 
characteristic way. Then Easton went on — 

“ Of course,” he said, “the distances are enor- 
mous; but we have endeavoured to equalize 
them as much as possible. The meeting-point 
has been fixed with a view to this. It is the 
southernmost anchorage obtainable east of Cape 


THE LAST MEETING 


149 


Chelyuskin, though it is far within the Arctic cir- 
cle. Of course secrecy is the chief aim, and has 
been the chief aim we have kept in view all 
along. Each of you knows his own department, 
and that only. Each of you keeps to himself the 
meeting-place and the date, not even divulging 
them to the rescued exiles under your care. We 
have succeeded, I surmise, in keeping our scheme 
completely secret. No one knows of it except 
ourselves, not even the Nihilist party in London. 
We must remember that we are not Nihilists, 
but merely seven men engaged upon a private 
enterprise. We have friends who have been un- 
justly exiled, many of them without a trial — upon 
mere suspicion. We are attempting to rescue 
those friends, that is all.” 

“Yes,” echoed the stout man, speaking for the 
first time, “that is all. I seek my daughter.” 

“And I my sister,” said one. 

“And I my brother,” said another. 

“It is,” added Pavloski, slowly, “a wife with 
me.” 

Tyars and Grace said nothing. They had not 
quite thought it out, and were unprepared with 
a reason. Easton was more at ease now. He 
lighted a cigarette, and consulted a little note- 
book hitherto concealed in his waistcoat-pocket. 

“I have endeavoured,” he continued, without 
taking his eyes from the pocketbook, “to make 
every department independent as much as possi- 
ble. For instance, my own death would in no 


150 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


wise affect the expedition. The money and in- 
formation would after such an event continue to 
filter through to Siberia by the prearranged chan- 
nels. In case of the death or imprisonment of 
our agent in St. Petersburg the same communica- 
tions would be kept open. We each have a sub- 
stitute, and the arrangements are so simple that 
these substitutes will have no difficulty in carry- 
ing them out. I need scarcely tell you that heavy 
bribes have been sent to the right quarters in Si- 
beria — high official quarters.” 

The stout man grunted in a knowing way, and 
signified by a little nod of the head that no fur- 
ther interruption need be feared. 

“In Russia,” continued Easton, turning the 
pages of his notebook, “ we all know that every 
official has his price. The only difficulty lies in 
the discovery of that price. The only parts that 
have not been doubled are those of the three gen- 
tlemen who go out to Siberia to organize the es- 
cape of the prisoners and exiles. I surmise that 
it is unnecessary to point out that these parts 
cannot be doubled. There are not three other 
such men to be found. As to our ship, she was 
built for Arctic service, and has been thoroughly 
strengthened above and below under the personal 
supervision of Mr. Tyars and myself. In Mr. 
Tyars and Lieutenant Grace we have two sailors 
eminently calculated to bear the strain that will 
be put upon them. Humanly speaking they may 
be trusted to do all that man can do, to get the 


THE LAST MEETING 


151 

Argo round Cape Chelyuskin to the rendezvous 
by the date named. It has always been under- 
stood between us that mutual trust and mutual 
assistance are things to be taken without saying. 
We all trust each other, and in case of failure, 
partial or entire, no blame is to be attached to 
any individual. This is our last meeting in Lon- 
don. Some of us may see each other again. I 
trust to God we shall. I trust that He who 
knows no nationalities will bring five of you to- 
gether again next summer.” 

There was a pause. Matthew Mark ,Easton 
turned the pages of his notebook in a vague, 
aimless way. Then suddenly he rose, threw his 
cigarette into the fire, and turning to the table, 
drew forward the decanters. He poured himself 
out a glass of wine, which he drank, keeping his 
back toward his guests. Then in that same po- 
sition, without looking round, he spoke in a low 
tone of voice — 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “ my report is finished.” 

There followed upon this a silence. The Rus- 
sians looked at each other vaguely. None of 
them were good English scholars, though they 
all understood the language perfectly, and spoke 
it without marked accent. Perhaps no one of 
them had anything very special to say. Just as 
the pause became embarrassing Tyars took the 
cigar from his mouth and spoke. 

“I have thought it necessary,” he said, ‘*to 
give out the information that I am fitting up a 


152 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


private Arctic expedition, of which the object is 
the exploration of the Northeastern passage. My 
reasons for doing this are numerous. It is diffi- 
cult to fit up a ship in London without attracting 
the attention of maritime newspapers, and it is 
imperative that suspicion be averted from the 
first. I had the misfortune to get into the news- 
papers a few months ago, and a society journal, 
on the staff of which are two college contempo- 
raries of my own, has taken the trouble to inquire 
publicly what I was doing on board a merchant- 
man in the West Indies. A certain amount of 
publicity will insure the information reaching the 
Russian authorities that an expedition is to start 
in the spring, and our presence on the north 
coast will then cause no surprise or suspicion. 
Again, Arctic exploration is a matter of keen in- 
terest in England, and a few short paragraphs 
in the leading newspapers will not only give 
me the choice of the best men obtainable, but 
will lead to an influx of volunteered information 
and advice from whaling captains and former 
explorers.” 

There was a business-like terseness about the 
announcements of this man which, while in 
keeping with his calling (a calling which cannot 
afford to look on the shady side of things), 
seemed to volunteer the information that he, at 
all events, was not prepared to bear part in an 
affecting leave-taking. The result of this was 
that the party broke up with a mere shake of the 


THE LAST MEETING 153 

hand, and the last meeting of this strange con- 
spiracy was a thing of the past. 

These men had been from the first singularly 
careless respecting outward things. They totally 
ignored from first to last the picturesqueness of 
conspiracy, the romance of secrecy, the dramatic 
intensity of their situation. It is a painful duty 
to record that they lighted fresh cigars and drove 
away in hansom cabs. 


CHAPTER XV 


A SERMON 

Some days later Oswin Grace dined with Claud 
Tyars at his club. It was in this manner that he 
disposed of his unoccupied evening. 

During the actual meal, served in a tall, hushed, 
and rather lonesome room, by a portentous gen- 
tleman in red plush breeches and pink stockings, 
there was not much opportunity for private con- 
versation. A few friends of Tyars came at in- 
tervals and stopped to exchange some words 
before sitting down at their own particular table. 
There was about all these gentlemen a similar 
peculiarity, namely, a certain burliness of chest 
and flatness of back. They had one and all been 
boating men in their time. They did not boast 
of many honours, nor possessed many degrees 
among them, but most of them had been in the 
‘‘ Boat” in their time. 

After dinner the two men lounged up the broad 
staircase to the smoking-room. There were two 
vast chairs near a secondary little fireplace at the 
far end of the room, and to these Tyars led the 
way. 

There is nothing like a cigar, coupled with a 
club chair, to conduce to pleasant meditation. 
154 


A SERMON 


155 


Oswin was inclined to be merry, but Tyars made 
no attempt to conceal his preoccupation. He had 
naturally much to think of, and it had as yet not 
been noticed among his colleagues how strictly 
he kept matters in his own hands. About the 
ship and her crew, her outfit and her capabilities, 
he consulted his subordinate freely enough, but 
as Easton had once remarked, the executive was 
wholly in his own hands. He saw personally to 
every detail, made all purchases, gave all orders; 
and everything was done in a matter-of-fact and 
business-like manner which showed great powers 
of organization. ' 

Although the two men were by now quite 
familiar friends, there were certain phases in 
Claud Tyars’ character which were as unintelligi- 
ble to Oswin Grace as they had been months be- 
fore on board the Martial. The young lieutenant 
still confessed freely that Claud Tyars was a 
“ rum fellow.” One generally finds a statement 
of this description tantamount to an admission of 
inferiority. It is just possible that Tyars had 
chosen this young sailor to aid him in his enter- 
prise on account of that same inferiority. Men 
who are born to command and love commanding 
are usually found in association with such as are 
obviously inferior to them. In some cases the 
selection is instinctive, in others it is deliberate; 
but Claud Tyars had unconsciously set his choice 
upon this man, knowing him to be a good sailor, 
a bold navigator, and an able officer. The choice 


156 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

had been made very quickly, with that strange 
haste which almost amounts to impetuosity, and 
which usually characterizes the action of prom- 
inent and successful men. Tyars was not con- 
scious of his own strength, and did not there- 
fore choose Oswin Grace because he was of 
weak will and easily led. 

The elder man was the first to break the si- 
lence. He removed the cigar from his lips and 
watched the fire burn while he spoke. 

“You have not,” he said, interrogatively, “got 
leave from the Admiralty yet.?” 

“Not yet,” was the answer returned confi- 
dently. Grace evidently anticipated no difficulty. 

“Then don’t do it.” 

The little square-shouldered man sat up. 

“What the devil do you mean, Tyars ?” 

“Don’t you think that you had better stick to 
brass-buttons and slave-catching ?” 

For once there was a lack of conviction in his 
voice. 

“No, 1 don’t!” replied the other, with plenty 
of conviction. He was leaning back again in the 
deep chair; but his bronzed face wore a singular 
gray colour, while his gaze never swerved from 
his companion’s features. 

“ What is it ? ” he continued in a quieter voice ; 
“ my seamanship ?” 

“No,” replied Tyars, “that is a matter of his- 
tory. It was your seamanship that brought the 
Martial home. Every one recognizes that.” 


A SERMON 


157 

“Then," said Grace, illogically, “let me go as 
A. B." 

Tyars laughed. 

“1 do not think," he said, “that you ought to 
go at all. You must feel it yourself, and now is 
the time to draw back — before it is too late." 

“My dear man— 1 don’t feel it, and I don’t 
want to draw back.” 

Grace was smiling now. Things were not so 
serious as they had at first appeared. He was 
still waiting for Tyars’ reason. He knew that his 
whilom chief was not the man to change his 
mind without strong motives, and already he 
pictured himself relegated to a lower position on 
board the Arctic vessel. 

“ Why," he asked, “ do you want to get rid of 
me ?" 

“ I don’t want to get rid of you. There is no 
man afloat whom 1 would put in your place. 
But I must be consistent. 1 have refused many 
good men for the same reason. You have too 
many — home ties." 

Grace found time to relight his cigar, and the 
match illuminated rather a flushed face. 

“What do you mean?" he asked at length, in 
a voice rendered unconscious with only partial 
success. 

It was an awkward question, for Tyars had 
been assured by this man’s sister that there ex- 
isted a distinct understanding between him and 
Miss Winter. 


158 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

He was not an adept at prevarication. 

“You see,” he said, awkwardly, “I am quite 
alone in the world. I have no one to sit at home 
and worry over my absence or my silence. I 
should like all the fellows who go with me to be 
in the same circumstances.” 

A somewhat prolonged silence followed — the 
stately silence of a clubroom, with padded doors 
and double windows. The two men smoked 
meditatively. 

“ I suppose,” said Grace at length, “that Helen 
has been getting at you.” 

Tyars was to some extent prepared for this, 
but he moved rather uneasily in his luxurious 
chair. 

“No,” he answered, “you know your sister 
better than to think that. She is not that sort of 
woman.” 

Oswin Grace smiled. He was rather proud of 
his sister. She was, he opined, the sort of sister 
for a sailor to have. Not a fretting, high-strung 
girl, but cool and self-contained and strong. 
Tyars' words conveyed a compliment, manly and 
terse, such as a gentleman may permit himself to 
imply in the presence of a brother. 

“Then,” he said, cheerfully, “if Helen does 
not mind it is no one else’s affair.” 

“How do you know,” asked Tyars, “that she 
does not mind ?” 

“You have just said so.” 

“Never.” 


A SERMON 


159 


“ Then what did you say, or mean to say ? ” 

“I meant,” replied the elder man, “ that I never 
asked her whether she would mind or not, and 
therefore do not know.” 

“You merely told her that I was going.” 

Tyars nodded his head, and smoked with some 
enthusiasm. 

“And—.?” 

“And she did not say in what way it would 
affect her; only suppose we are away two years 
— suppose we don’t come back at all. Your 
father is an old man — she will be alone in the 
world.” 

Oswin Grace stroked his neatly-cropped beard 
thoughtfully. 

“ Helen,” he said at length, “ will marry.” 

Like most big men Tyars possessed the faculty 
of sitting very still. During the silence that fol- 
lowed this remark, he might have been hewn of 
solid stone, so motionless was he as to limbs, 
features, and even nerves. At length he mois- 
tened his lips and turned his slow gaze to meet 
that of his companion, who was sitting forward 
in his chair awaiting the effect of this argument. 
There was a waiter arranging the newspapers on 
a table near at hand, and before replying Tyars 
ordered coffee. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is probable, and she 
always has her friend — Miss Winter.” 

Oswin Grace leant back suddenly into the 
chair. 


i6o PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

“Yes,” he said, “she will always have Agnes 
Winter, and if she married, her friendship would 
be only the more useful.” 

That settled it. Claud Tyars gave a little sigh 
of relief, and helped himself to coffee. 

“Shall I,” he said, “put sugar in yours?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“ Two lumps ?” 

“Two small ones,” replied Grace. 

They discussed this question just as gravely as 
the other. 

Then, when the waiter had withdrawn, Tyars 
returned to the original subject of the conversa- 
tion. 

“Of course,” he said, “if you feel quite free 
from the slightest moral obligation, I have noth- 
ing more to say.” 

“Thank you,” replied Oswin Grace, with re- 
lieved cheeriness; “that is exactly how I feel. 
But I wish you would not seek difficulties where 
there are none. You have me a beastly fright 
you know.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


MISS WINTER DIVERGES 

“ My dear OswiN, 

“If you want to carry out this theatre- 
party, come and see me about it. I shall be at 
home all the morning. 

‘ Yours very truly, 

“Agnes Winter.” 

The young sailor read this letter among others 
at the breakfast-table. His father and sister were 
engaged on their own affairs; Helen with her let- 
ters, the admiral among his newspapers. Oswin 
Grace read the letter twice, and then with a 
glance to see that he was unobserved by his sis- 
ter, he slipped it into his pocket together with the 
envelope that had contained it. 

“Have you,” said Helen, immediately after- 
ward, “a letter from Agnes 

“Yes,” he replied, opening a second missive 
with airy indifference. “ She wants me to ar- 
range about the theatre. 1 shall go round and 
see her this morning — will you come with me ?” 

The girl raised her eyebrows almost impercep- 
tibly. There had been a time when he would 
have schemed unscrupulously to go alone. 

i6i 


i 62 prisoners and CAPTIVES 

“I am afraid,” she answered, quietly, “that I 
cannot go out this morning. I have so much to 
do in the house.” 

“You had better come.” 

“ If you will put it off to this afternoon I should 
like to,” she replied. 

“No; lam engaged this afternoon.” 

“Where?” inquired the admiral without rais- 
ing his eyes from the newspaper. 

“At the docks — with Tyars.” 

There was nothing more said, and at eleven 
o’clock Oswin went out alone. The fog and 
gloom of late November had given place to a 
bright, dry cold, and this, without any great fall 
in the thermometer, now held complete sway. 

Miss Winter’s elderly maidservant evidently 
expected Lieutenant Grace, for she opened the 
door and stood back invitingly. Then when he 
was in the hall unbuttoning his thick pilot coat, 
she informed him that Miss Agnes was out, but 
was to return in a few moments. He was 
ushered up into the warm, luxurious drawing- 
room, and after the door had been closed, stood 
for a few moments irresolute in the middle of 
the deep carpet. Presently he began to wander 
about the room, taking things up and setting 
them down again. He inhaled the subtle atmos- 
phere of feminine home refinement and looked 
curiously round him. There were a hundred 
little personalities, little inconsidered feminine 
trifles that are only found where a woman is 


MISS WINTER DIVERGES 163 

quite at home. The very arrangement of the 
room proved that it was a woman’s room, that 
a woman lived her everyday life there, and set 
her indefinable subtle stamp upon everything. 
There was a silly little lace handkerchief, utterly 
useless and vain, lying upon a table beside a 
work-basket. He took it up, examined its tex- 
ture critically, and then instinctively raised it to 
his face. He threw it down again with a pecul- 
iar twisted smile. 

“ Wonder what scent it is,” he muttered. “ I 
have never come across it — anywhere else.” 

He went toward the mantelpiece; upon it were 
two portraits — old photographs, somewhat faded. 
One of Helen, the other of himself. He exam- 
ined his own likeness for some moments. 

“Solemn little beggar,” he said, for the photo- 
graph was of a little square-built midshipman 
with a long oval face. “Solemn little beggar. 
Wonder why he is on this mantelpiece ?” 

Then he continued his mental inventory, stop- 
ping finally on the hearth-rug with his back turned 
toward the fire, his hands thrust into his side- 
pockets of his short blue serge jacket. 

“ I think,” he reflected aloud, “that I was rather 
a fool to come here. Tyars would not like it.” 

While he was still following out the train of 
thought suggested by this reflection the door 
opened and Miss Winter entered. She had evi- 
dently just come in, for she was still gloved and 
furred. 


i 64 prisoners AND CAPTIVES 


'‘Ah!” she said, gaily; “you have come. I 
was afraid that your exacting commander would 
require your services all the morning.” 

“My exacting commander,” he answered, as 
he took her gloved hand in his, “has a peculiar 
way of doing everything himself and leaving his 
subordinates idle.” 

She was standing before him slowly unbutton- 
ing her trim little sealskin jacket. Then she 
drew off her gloves and threw them down on a 
chair beside her jacket. There was about her 
movements that subtle sense of feminine luxury 
which is slightly bewildering to men unaccus- 
tomed to English home-life. The cold bright air 
had brought a glow of colour to her cheeks; she 
might easily have been a girl of twenty-one. 
But there was a fascination in her which was 
equal to that of youth, if not superior — the fasci- 
nation of perfect self-possession, of savoir- 

faire. She seemed singularly sure of herself, 
quite certain as to what she was going to say or 
do next. She seemed to know how to make the 
best of life, how to laugh in the right places, and 
work and play; and perhaps she knew howto 
love if she set her mind that way. 

“The delicate daughter,” she said, cheerily, 
“of the genial milkman has been suddenly taken 
worse. I knew that meant jelly, so I took it 
round at once with last week’s Graphic, and got 
it over. I hope I have not kept you waiting?” 

“Oh, no; thanks,” he replied. 


MISS WINTER DIVERGES 


165 

It almost seemed that he was not quite at ease 
with his old playmate — the companion of his 
childhood. If this was so the change was all on 
his side, for she persistently treated him with 
that sisterly familiarity which has led so many of 
us into mistakes that might be ludicrous if they 
only did not leave such a nasty sting behind 
them. 

She approached the mirror above the mantel- 
piece, and in continuance of her sisterly treat- 
ment, proceeded placidly to draw out the long 
pins from her hat, while he watched the deft 
play of her fingers. 

"‘I have been wandering round the room,” he 
continued, resolutely turning away, “looking 
for old friends.” 

“You have scarcely been in this room,” she 
said, without looking round, “since you came 
back.” 

“No-0-0! I found a little thimble in the top 
of your work-basket. Do you remember how 
we used to make indigestible little loaves of 
bread and cook them in a thimble over the 
gas?” 

“Yes,” she laughed, “it is the same thimble. 
It fits me still.” 

She held up for his edification a small dimpled 
hand with clever capable fingers bent backward. 
He gave a short laugh. Then, having removed 
her hat, she knelt down in front of the fire to 
warm herself. 


i66 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“What,” she said suddenly, “about this ex- 
pedition ? ” 

He looked back at her over his shoulder, for 
he had gone toward the window, and there was 
a sudden gleam of determination in his eyes. It 
was her influence that had disturbed Tyars’ reso- 
lution. 

“What expedition.?^” he asked, curtly, on his 
guard. 

“ This theatre expedition,” she replied, sweetly. 

“Oh, well ; I suppose it will be carried through. 
We all want to go.” 

“We — all.?^” she said, inquiringly. 

He came nearer to her, standing actually on the 
hearth-rug beside her and looking down. 

“Helen,”, he explained, “and Tyars, and my- 
self, and Easton, I believe.” 

She gave a little nod at the mention of each 
name, tallying them off in her mind. 

“And,” he continued, “I suppose you are not 
strongly opposed to it ? ” 

“I,” she laughed lightly; “of course I want to 
go. You know that I am always ready for 
amusement, profitless or otherwise — profitless 
preferred! Why do you look so grave, Oswin ? 
Please don’t — I hate solemnity. Do you know 
you have got horribly grave lately ? It is . . .” 

“ It is what, Agnes .?*” 

He was looking down at her with his keen, 
close-set gray eyes, and she met his glance for a 
moment only. 


MISS WINTER DIVERGES 


167 

“Mr. Tyars,” she answered, clasping her fin- 
gers together and bending them backward as if 
to restore the circulation after her cold walk. 

“There is something,” said Grace, after a little 
pause, during which Miss Winter had continued 
to rub her hands together, “that jars. Tyars 
annoys you in some way.” 

Miss Winter changed colour. She did not 
however make any answer. 

“What is it ? ” asked Grace. “ His energy ? ” 

‘No-o,” slowly. 

“His gravity?” 

“No.” 

“His independence?” 

“I like men to be energetic, grave, and inde- 
pendent. All men should be so.” 

“Then what is it ? ” asked Os win. 

She made no answer. 

“Won’t you tell me, Agnes?” he urged; and 
as he spoke he walked away from her and stood 
looking out of the window. They were thus at 
opposite sides of the room, back to back. She 
glanced over her shoulder, drew a deep breath, 
and then spoke with an odd little smile. One 
would almost have thought that she was going 
to tell a lie. 

“His Arctic expeditions,” she said, deliber- 
ately. “If he is going to spend his life in that 
sort of thing I would rather — not — cultivate — his 
friendship.” 

She leant forward, warming her hands fever- 


i68 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


ishly, breathing rapidly and unevenly. She felt 
him approach, for his footsteps were inaudible on 
the thick carpet, and she only crouched a little 
lower. At last, after a short silence, he spoke, 
and his voice was quite different; it was deeper 
and monotonous. 

“Why should you not wish to cultivate his 
friendship under those circumstances.?” 

“Because,” she answered, lamely, “I should 
hate to have a friend of mine — a real friend — 
running the risk of such a horrible death.” 

He walked away to the window again and 
stood there with his hands thrust into his jacket- 
pockets — a sturdy, square little man — a plucky, 
self-contained Englishman, taking his punish- 
ment without a word. He was, as has been 
stated, rather ignorant in the ways of women. 
Most naval men are. And he fell into the trap 
blindly. He was actually foolish enough to be- 
lieve that Agnes Winter loved Claud Tyars, and 
he was ignorant enough to believe that a woman 
ever tells one man of her love for another. It 
seems almost incredible that he should do this. 
It is only men who make such mistakes as re- 
gards human nature. 

As a man of honour he had carefully schooled 
himself to show this lady by every action, word, 
and gesture that if he had at one time been 
moved to regard her with other than the eyes of 
a brother, that time was passed. This was the 
least he could do in honour toward her, in faith 


MISS WINTER DIVERGES 


169 


toward Claud Tyars. Whether he succeeded or 
not could only be known to Agnes Winter her- 
self. But, to judge from the expression of his 
face, from the contracted pain of his eyes as he 
stood looking down into the quiet street, it would 
seem that he had not been prepared to hear from 
her own lips that this woman, whom he had 
loved all his life, loved another man. This nau- 
seating sense of unsteadiness in a great purpose 
is probably not quite unknown to the majority of 
us. It is so easy to make up one’s mind to a 
noble sacrifice and to give entire attention to the 
larger duties attending on it. Then comes some 
sudden unforeseen demand upon our self-sup- 
pression ; sometimes it is almost trivial, and yet 
it leaves us shaken and uncertain. 

Oswin remembered the jealous pangs with 
which he first saw these two together. Subse- 
quent events had disarmed his jealousy and al- 
layed his fears. Even now he could not realize 
what She had told him. And yet he was mad 
enough to believe it. Moreover, he continued to 
believe it. It was only at a subsequent period that 
he began to doubt and to analyze, and then it was 
clear enough to him. It was clear that in imply- 
ing she had in no way committed herself. He 
had understood her to confess that she was on 
the verge of falling in love with this nineteenth- 
century knight-errant, and yet she had made no 
such confession. It is probable that in that later 
season he remembered the words and not the 


170 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


manner of saying them. For, after all, the most 
important thing is not what we say, but how 
we say it. 

Suddenly Oswin Grace seemed to recall him- 
self to the matter-of-fact question under discus- 
sion. 

“That," he said, “is the worst of making 
friends. One is bound to drift away from them. 
But still it is foolish to hold aloof on that ac- 
count." 

She laughed in rather a strained way. 

“Our maritime philosopher," she said. 

“Shall I get the tickets?" he asked in a prac- 
tical way. 

“ Please." 

“ Well, then, I will go off at once and book 
them." 

He shook hands and left her standing in the 
middle of the room. 

“ Perhaps," she murmured regretfully, “ it was^ 
very cruel — or it may be only my own self-con- 
ceit. At all events it was not so cruel as they are 
to Helen. I do not think that they will both go 
now." 


CHAPTER XVII 


GREEK AND GREEK 

Scarcely had the front door closed behind 
Oswin Grace when the bell was rung again. 

Miss Winter standing in the drawing-room 
heard the tones of a man’s voice, and in a few 
moments the maid knocked and came into the 
drawing-room. 

“A gentleman, please, Miss; a Mr. Easton,” 
she said, doubtfully. 

“Mr. Easton,” repeated Agnes Winter, catch- 
ing the inflection of doubt. For a moment she 
forgot who this might be. 

“He gave his full name. Miss,” added the 
servant with faltering gravity. 

“Oh.” 

“Mr. Matthew Mark Easton.” 

“Of course— show him up at once.” 

Matthew Mark Easton had evidently devoted 
some care to the question of dress on this occa- 
sion. Some extra care perhaps, for he was a pe- 
culiarly neat man. He always wore a narrow 
silk tie in the form of a bow of which the ends 
were allowed to stick straight out sideways, 
over the waistcoat. His coat was embellished 
by an orchid. 

“ I am afraid,” he began at once, with perfect 
171 


172 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


equanimity, “that I have made a mistake — a so- 
cial blunder.” 

“How so?” inquired Miss Winter, smiling 
her ready smile. 

“I do not think that your hired girl expected 
visitors at this time in the morning,” he replied, 
waiting obviously for her to take a seat. 

“I am afraid Ann is rather eccentric,” began 
the lady, apologetically, but he stopped her with 
a laugh. 

“Oh no!” he said, “she did not think that I 
had come about the gas-meter, or anything like 
that. But her face is expressive if homely; plain, 
I mean.” 

“ I hope that it only expressed polite surprise.” 

“That was all,” he replied, laying on the table 
a few beautiful flowers which he had been carry- 
ing loose in his hand. There were orchids and 
white lilac and pale heliotrope. “ I brought you 
these,” he explained, “but I did not come on 
purpose to bring them. I came on business, so 
to speak. I have noticed that when Englishmen 
are by way of being sociable, when they are go- 
ing to a dance or a theatre or to make calls, they 
always carry a flower in their buttonhole, so I 
bought one. I thought it would explain to your 
domestic servant that I had come to call, but she 
perhaps failed to see my flower. When I was 
buying it, I saw these other ones and — and 
thought they would look nice in your parlour.” 

He looked round him in his formal American 


GREEK AND GREEK 


^13 

way, and interrupted her thanks by saying that 
it was a very pretty room. 

She rose, and. taking up the delicate flowers 
proceeded at once to place them in water. 

“I came,” he then explained, “to inform you 
that I have secured a box, the stage-box, for 
Wednesday night, at the Epic Theatre. It will 
be doing me a pleasure if you will form one of 
my party.” 

Still engaged with the flowers. Miss Winter 
began thanking him vaguely without actually ac- 
cepting. 

“I do not know,” he said, “exactly how these 
things are managed in England, but I want Miss 
Grace and her brother to come as my guests too. 
Miss Grace was kind enough to ask me to be one 
of a theatre party, and mentioned the Epic, so I 
went right away and got a box.” 

“Oswin has just gone to procure seats for the 
same night,” said Miss Winter, quickly. 

“No,” replied the American; “I stopped him. 
I met him in the street.” 

Miss Winter knew that they must have met 
actually on her doorstep, and she wondered why 
he should have deliberately made a misstatement. 
She felt indefinitely guilty, as if Oswin’s visit had 
been surreptitious. Suddenly she became aware 
of the quick flitting glance of her companion’s 
eyes, noting everything — each tiny flicker of the 
eyelids, each indrawn breath, each slightest move- 
ment. 


74 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“How am I to do it?” he asked, innocently. 
“A note to Miss Grace, or a verbal invitation to 
her brother ? ” 

“A note,” replied Miss Winter, with a gravity 
equal to his own, “to Helen, saying that you 
have secured the stage-box for Wednesday even- 
ing, and hope that she and her brother will ac- 
cept seats in it.” 

He nodded his head, signifying comprehen- 
sion, and rose to go. 

“Thank you,” he said ; “ in America we would 
not be so circumlocutory. We would say, 
' Dear Miss Grace, will you come to the theatre 
with self and friends on Wednesday ?’ But I am 
anxious to do what is right over here. I respect 
your British institutions and your domestic serv- 
ants; the two hold together right through. Half 
the institutions are adhered to on account of the 
servants. Half your British gentlemen dress for 
dinner because their butler puts on a claw-ham- 
mer coat for the same. Half your ladies wash 
their hands for lunch because the hired girl has 
taken up a tin of hot water.” 

“And in America,” said Miss Winter, who had 
not risen from her seat, “you have no respect for 
your servants ? ” 

“Not much — we pretend we have. We pre- 
tend that we are all equal, and of course we are 
not. We think that we are very simple, and we 
are in reality very complex. Our social life is so 
complicated as to be almost impossible. No; 


GREEK AND GREEK 


75 


you are the simplest people on earth, because 
you like doing exactly what your immediate an- 
cestors did. We are not content with a genera- 
tion, we must go farther back for our model, or 
else we have no model at all, but try to be one.” 

“1 think,” said Miss Winter, “that you are 
more conscious of yourselves than we are. 1 do 
not mean self-conscious; it is not so strong as 
that. You are self-analytical.” 

“Yes,” answered Easton, still lingering, al- 
though he did not take a seat in obedience to her 
evident wish. “We feel our own feelings; we 
think about our own thoughts ; nous nousecoutons 
mentally.” 

“As a nation?” she inquired, with some in- 
terest. 

“Yes, as a nation. We think, and talk, and 
write about our national morals, about the evolu- 
tion of the national mind. You have nothing in 
common but your political wrangles.” 

“England,” said Miss Winter, without dis- 
paragement, indeed with a sort of pride, “is the 
only country that does not talk of Progress, and 
write it with a capital P.” 

Matthew Mark Easton came back again toward 
the fireplace; like all Americans, he loved com- 
parisons. 

“Progress,” he said, “spelt as you suggest is 
a disease. It fixed itself upon England in the 
days of your virgin queen; you have lived it 
down, and are all the stronger now for having 


176 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

been affected. We got it next, and I surmise 
that we had it badly. France is suffering now, 
and she has had a still sharper attack, so sharp 
that surgery came into play — the knife — the knife 
they called the guillotine. Russia is the next 
upon the list; she will have it worst of all, her 
surgery will be effected with a dirty axe." 

“ Your mention of Russia," said Miss Winter, 
skipping away from the subject under discussion 
with all the inconsequence of her sex and kind, 
“reminds me of something I heard said of you 
the other evening. It was, in fact, said to me." 

“Then," replied the American, with cheery 
gallantry, “ I should like to hear it. Had it been 
said to any one else I allow that I should have 
been indifferent." 

He stood with his hands clasped behind his 
back, looking down at her with a smile upon his 
wistful little face. 

“ Do you know Mr. Santow ?" 

The smile vanished, and the dancing eyes at 
once assumed an expression of alert keenness, 
which was almost ludicrous in its contrast. 

“The Russian attache — unaccredited he re- 
plied, giving back question for question. 

Miss Winter nodded her head. 

“No — " he said, slowly; “I do not; I think I 
know him by sight." 

“I have met him on several occasions. I rather 
like him, although I cannot understand him. 
There is an inward Mr. Santow whom I have not 


GREEK AND GREEK 


177 

met yet; I only know a creature who smiles and 
behaves generally like a lamb.” 

“ Santo w,” said Easton, deliberately, “is alto- 
gether too guileless.” 

Miss Winter countered sharply. 

“ 1 thought you did not know him ?” 

“1 do not,” answered Easton, imperturbably. 

“ Except by reputation ?” 

“ Precisely.” 

“He is reputed,” said Miss Winter, “to be a 
great diplomatist.” 

“ So 1 believe — hence the lamb-like manners.” 

Easton’s face was a study in the art of sup- 
pressing curiosity. 

“ Do you think that he is a wolf in lamb’s 
clothing ? ” asked the lady with a laugh. 

“No; I think he is an ass, if you will excuse a 
slight mixture of metaphor.” 

Miss Winter laughed again in a light-hearted, 
irresponsible way. 

“1 will tell you,” she said, “what he said 
about you.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“We were talking about Russia — it is his 
favourite topic — and he said that at times he felt 
like the envoy from some heathen country, so 
little is Russia known by us. By way of illustra- 
tion he asked me to look round the room and tell 
him if it did not contain all that was most intel- 
lectual and learned in England. 1 admitted that 
he was right. He said, ‘And yet there are but 


178 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

two men in the room who speak Russian.’ Then 
he pointed you out. ‘That is one,’ he said; ‘ he 
knows my country better than any man in Eng- 
land. If he were a diplomatist I should fear 
him!’ ‘What is he?’ I asked, and he merely 
shrugged his shoulders in that guileless way to 
which you object.” 

Matthew Mark Easton did not appear to be 
much impressed. He moved from one foot to 
the other and took considerable interest in the 
pattern of the carpet. 

“And,” he inquired, “did he mention the 
name of the second accomplished person ? ” 

“No.” 

“ I wonder who it was ? ” said Easton. 

“Mr. Tyars,” suggested the lady, calmly. 

“Possibly. By the way, I thought of asking 
him to join us on Wednesday at the Epic.” 

“I hope,” said Miss Winter, with a gracious 
little bow, “that he will be able to come.” 

“ ‘ Dear Miss Grace,’ ” began Easton, solemnly, 
as if repeating a lesson, “‘1 have secured the 
stage-box at the Epic for Wednesday evening 
next, and hope that you and your brother will do 
me the pleasure of accepting seats in it.’ Will 
that do ? ” 

“ Very nicely.” 

“And I may count on you ? ” 

“Yes; you may count on me.” 

“Thank you,” he said, simply, and took his 
departure. 


GREEK AND GREEK 


179 


As he walked rapidly eastward toward the club 
where he was expecting to meet Tyars, his 
quaint little face was wrinkled up into a thousand 
interrogations. 

“Yes,” he said, at length, with a knowing 
nod, “it was a warning; that spry little lady 
smells a rat. How does she know that Tyars 
speaks Russian ? He is not the sort of fellow to 
boast of his accomplishments. She must have 
heard it from Grace, and to hear from him she 
must have asked, because Grace is more than 
half inclined to be jealous of Tyars, and would 
take care not to remove the bushel from his 
light.” 

For some time he walked on whistling a tune 
softly. Cheerfulness is only a habit. He did not 
really feel cheerful, nor particularly inclined for 
music. Then he began reflecting in an under- 
tone again. 

“ Here 1 am,” he said, “ in a terrible fright of 
two women; all my schemes may be upset by- 
either of them, and I do not know which to fear 
most — that clever little lady with her sharp wits, 
or that girl’s eyes. I almost think Miss Helen’s 
eyes are the more dangerous; I am sure they 
would be if it was my affair — if it was me whom 
those quiet eyes followed about. But it is not; 
it is Tyars. Now 1 wonder — I wonder if he 
knows \t?” 


CHAPTER XVIII 
Easton’s box 

It occasionally happens to the most astute of 
us to act, and even take some trouble over our 
action without quite knowing why we do so. 
There is a little motive called human impulse 
which at times upsets the deepest calculations. 
Not one of us has met a man or woman whose 
every action and every word was the result of 
forethought, and consequently fraught with a 
deeper meaning and a fuller design than would ap- 
pear upon the surface. Such persons do exist, of 
course — because the lady novelist tells us so. 
There can be no doubt of it. I merely venture 
to observe that in our small way we have not 
met them yet in the flesh. 

Had the keen-witted Easton been asked why 
he felt impelled to disburse ten guineas for the 
benefit of the lessee of the Epic Theatre he would 
scarcely have been able to make an immediate 
reply. In his rapid airy fashion he had picked 
up and pieced together certain little bits of evi- 
dence tending to prove that the young people 
with whom he found himself on somewhat sud- 
den terms of intimacy were exceedingly partial 
to each other’s society. As may have been 
i8o 


EASTON’S BOX 


i8i 

gathered from his own outspoken reflections, he 
had drawn certain conclusions respecting Helen 
Grace. He had never known women intimately, 
and to him as to many in the same position the 
feelings of a woman were something almost 
sacred. I must even ask you to believe that he 
held the quaint old-fashioned opinion that it is 
man’s duty to spare women as much as possible 
— to make their way here among the rocks as 
smooth as they can — to be gallant and gentle — 
to be brave for them and to fear for them — to 
look upon them as a frail and delicate and beau- 
tiful treasure placed into their hands to cherish 
and to love; to be proud of. 

Easton did the honours of his box with that 
easy formality of manner which is essentially 
American and admirable. He arranged the seats 
to suit the emergency of the moment or what he 
took to be the emergency of the moment. He 
placed Tyars just behind Helen Grace; for he 
was a soft-hearted man. Helen did not seem to 
notice this. 

Tyars took up a programme and began study- 
ing it. 

“Who is the man,” he said, “playing the 
villain? I am frightfully ignorant in theatrical 
matters.” 

“He is good, is he not?” said the girl, men- 
tioning the actor’s name. 

“Yes. He is unconscious of being a villain, 
which touch of nature makes him very human.” 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


182 

Helen seemed to be rather struck with these 
words spoken indifferently with down-turned 
eyes. 

“Are villains in real life unconscious of their 
villainy she asked at length, with perfunctory 
interest. 

“I do not know,” he answered, with a pre- 
occupation which saved his manner from being 
actually rude; “I should think so — yes — cer- 
tainly.” 

He raised his head, and the effort with which 
he avoided looking toward her was probably 
detected by the gentle gray eyes. 

There was a little silence: hardly irksome be- 
cause the invisible orchestra was now in full 
blast. 

“I suppose,” said Helen, closing her fan, “that 
all this is rather trivial for you. The interest you 
take in it must be superficial now that you are 
so busy.” 

“Oh no!” Tyars hastened to begin; he was 
looking past her in that strangely persistent way 
into the theatre, and something he saw there 
made him turn his head quickly toward the stage. 

“Hallo!” he exclaimed. Then he caught her 
wrist in his grasp. “Keep still,” he whispered. 

The painted curtain was bellying right forward 
like the mainsail of a barque, and from the space 
at either side a sudden volume of smoke poured 
forth in huge uneven clouds. 

In a second the whole audience was on its feet, 


EASTON’S BOX 183 

and for a moment a sickening silence reigned — 
the breathless silence of supreme fear. 

Then a single form appeared on the stage. It 
was that of the man referred to by Claud Tyars 
a moment before; he who played the villain’s 
part so unconsciously. He was still in his dark 
wig and pallid make-up. On his arm he carried 
the coat he had just taken off, and the other arm 
clad in white shirt-sleeve was raised in a gesture 
of command. 

“ I must ask you,” he cried, in a full clear voice, 
“to leave your seats as . . .” 

And his tones were drowned, completely over- 
whelmed by a strange unearthly roar; the roar of 
a thousand human voices raised in one surging 
wail of despair, like the din of surf upon a shingle 
shore. 

The man shouted, and his gestures were almost 
ludicrous even at that supreme moment, for no 
sound could be heard from his lips. 

Then the gas was turned out, and in the dark- 
ness a terrible struggle began. Some who came 
out of it could liken it to nothing on earth, but 
they said that they had gained a clearer compre- 
hension of what hell might be. Women shrieked 
and men forgot themselves — blaspheming aloud. 

As the gas flickered and finally collapsed, those 
in the stage-box caught a momentary vision of 
wild distorted faces coming toward them. The 
pit had overflowed the stalls. Strong barriers 
crumbled like matchwood. Into a hundred minds 


1 84 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

at once there had flashed the hope of escape 
through the stage-boxes. 

“ Grace! Easton! ” It was Tyars’ voice raised, 
and yet not shouting. The crisis had come, the 
danger was at hand, and Helen knew who it was 
that would take the lead. 

She heard the two men answer. 

“Keep the people back. I will break open the 
door on to the stage; it is our best chance.” 

The girl felt herself lifted from the ground and 
carried to the back of the box. 

“Miss Grace!” said Tyars. 

“Yes!” 

“ Are you all right ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I thought you had fainted, you were so quiet! 
Hold on to my coat! Never leave go of that! ” 

He turned away from her, and above the din 
and uproar came the sound of his blows upon 
the woodwork of the door. It seemed impos- 
sible that such strokes could have been dealt by 
an unarmed human hand. 

Between the blows came the sickening sound 
of the struggle at the front of the box. Impre- 
cations, blasphemy, and supplications, mingled 
with groans and the dull thud of merciless fists 
upon human faces. Shoulder to shoulder the 
two men — the American and the Englishman — 
fought for the lives of the women placed by the 
hand of God under their protection. It was a 
terrible task, though few women reached the 


EASTON’S BOX 


185 


front of the box. Each man struck down, each 
assailant beaten back was doomed, and the de- 
fenders knew it. Once down, once underfoot, 
and it was a matter of moments. 

Fresh assailants came crowding on, treading 
on the fallen and consequently obtaining an ever- 
increasing advantage as they rose on a level with 
the defenders. Neither seemed to question the 
wisdom of Tyars’ command. It was a matter of 
life or death. Those already in the stage-box 
would only be crushed by the onrush of the 
others were they allowed to enter. With a 
dazed desperation the two men faced the fright- 
ful odds, hammering wildly with both fists. 
Their arms ached from sheer hard work, and 
they panted hoarsely. Their eyeballs throbbed 
with the effort to pierce unfathomable darkness. 
It was quite certain that their defence could not 
last long. 

“Stick to it! "yelled Tyars. He might have 
been on the deck of the Martial during a white 
squall, so great was the uproar all round him. 

At last there was the sound of breaking wood. 

“Grace!" shouted the voice of Tyars. 

“Yes." 

“ Look after Miss Winter when we go." 

“Right." 

“Easton! " he cried again. 

“Yes!" 

“Come last, and keep them back if you can." 

Then a minute later he shouted, “ Come! " 


i86 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


At the same instant the roaring crowd of mad- 
men poured in over the low front of the box, like 
soldiers storming a bastion. The door which 
Tyars had succeeded in opening was so narrow 
as to admit of the passage of only one person at 
a time, but at this instant the larger door leading 
into a narrow passage, the real exit from the 
stage-box, broke down before a pressure from 
without, and from this point also a stream of 
half-demented beings tried to force an entrance. 

The only advantage possessed by the original 
occupants of the box was that they knew the 
position of the small door. 

The subsequent recollections of such individ- 
uals as survived were so fragmentary and vague 
that no connected story of the terrible tragedy in 
the stage-box of the Epic Theatre was ever given 
to the public. 

Miss Winter remembered finding herself caught 
up in a strong pair of arms, which she presumed 
to be those of Oswin Grace. Almost at the same 
moment she and her protector were thrown to 
the ground. After that the next thing she could 
remember was the touch of a hand over her face 
and hair, and a whispered voice in her ear — 

“ Agnes Winter — is this you?” 

She recognized the peculiar American twang 
which was never unpleasant. At that moment 
she almost laughed. 

“Yes — yes,” she answered. 

“Then crawl to your left. Don’t try to get up 


EASTON’S BOX 1S7 

— crawl over this man. I don’t know who he 
is, but I surmise he is dead.” 

She obeyed, and found her way out of the 
narrow door and up some steps. Close behind 
her followed some one, whom she took to be 
Matthew Mark Easton, but it ultimately turned 
out to be Oswin Grace, who was in his turn fol- 
lowed by the American, but not until later. 

Helen Grace heard the word “come,” and sub- 
mitted obediently to the supporting arm which 
half dragged, half carried her up some steps. 
She remembered being carried like a child, 
through some darksome place where the atmos- 
phere was cold and damp. Then she was con- 
scious of a halt, followed closely by the sound of 
breaking wood and the tearing of some material 
— probably canvas, for they were among the 
scenery. After that she probably fainted, and 
was only brought to consciousness by the shock 
of a violent fall in which her companion was 
undermost. Then she heard a voice calling out — 

“This way, sir; this way.” 

She recollected seeing a fireman standing in a 
narrow passage waving a lantern. By the time 
that she reached the open air she was quite con- 
scious. 

“Let me walk,” she said, “I am all right. 
Where is Agnes ?” 

“They are behind,” answered Tyars. “She 
is all right. She has two men to look after her. 
You have only me.” 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


1 88 

“Wait for them,” said the girl. “I will not 
go home without them.” 

“All right; we shall wait outside. Let us get 
out first.” 

They were standing in a small room, probably 
the office of the theatre, and a policeman sta- 
tioned near the window, of which the framework 
had been broken away, called to them impatiently. 

The window was about four feet from the 
ground, and Helen wondered momentarily why 
Claud Tyars accomplished the drop so clumsily. 
In the narrow street he turned tc a police inspec- 
tor, and pointed to the window. 

“ Lift the lady down,” he said. 

A cab was near at hand, and in it they waited 
— seated side by side in silence — for what seemed 
hours. The crowd dropped away, seeking some 
more interesting spot. At last there was a move- 
ment at the window, and Tyars got out of the 
cab and went away, leaving Helen in an agony 
of mute suspense. In a few moments it was 
over and the girl breathed freely. 

It seemed strangely unreal and dream-like to 
hear Agnes Winter’s voice again; to see her 
standing on the pavement beneath the yellow 
gas-lamp, drawing together the gay little opera- 
cloak round her shoulders. 

As Miss Winter stepped into the cab she leant 
forward and kissed Helen. That was all; no 
word was said. But the two women sat hand- 
in-hand during the drive home. 


EASTON’S BOX 


189 


Tyars and Oswin spoke together a few words 
in a lowered tone quite overwhelmed by the rat- 
tle of the cab, and then sat silently. The light of 
occasional lamps flashed in through the unwashed 
window, and showed that the men’s clothes 
were covered with dirt and dust, which neither 
attempted to brush off. 

When the cab stopped in Brook Street, Oswin 
got out first, and going up the steps opened the 
front door noiselessly with a latch-key. Tyars 
paid the cabman, and followed the ladies into the 
house. 

The gas in the hall and dining-room had been 
lowered, and they all stood for a moment in the 
gloom round the daintily-dressed table. When 
Oswin Grace turned up the gas they looked at 
each other curiously. 

The two men bore greater evidence to the ter- 
rible ordeal through which they had passed than 
the ladies. Oswin’s coat-sleeve was nearly torn 
off, while his waistcoat hung open, all the but- 
tons having been wrenched away. Upon his 
shirt-front there were deep red drops of blood 
slowly congealing, and the marks of dirty fin- 
gers right across the rumpled linen. His face 
was deeply scratched, and the blood had trickled 
down into his trim dark beard, unheeded, un- 
quenched. 

As to clothing, Claud Tyars was very much in 
the same condition, but there was a peculiarity 
worth noting in the expression of his faqe as he 


190 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


looked round with a half-suppressed smile. All 
the lines of care were smoothed away from it. 
In his eyes there dwelt a clear glow of excite- 
ment (the deep inward excitement of a man ac- 
customed to the exercise of an iron control over 
his own feelings), which had taken the place of 
a certain concentrated frown of preoccupation, 
as if something were going wrong. 

There was something characteristic of their 
calling in the manner in which both men ignored 
completely the dilapidated condition of their ap- 
parel. That alone would have told a keen ob- 
server that they were sailors — men accustomed 
to foul weather and heavy damage — accustomed 
to accepting things as they come with a placid 
hope of fairer weather ahead when repairs might 
be effected. 

Miss Winter kept her opera-cloak closed, sim- 
ply stating that her dress was torn. Her hair 
was becomingly untidy, but she showed no sign 
of scratch or hurt. 

Helen was hardly ruffled, beyond a few little 
stray curls, almost golden in colour, stealing 
down beside her ears. Her dress, however, was 
a little torn at one shoulder, and a tiny scratch 
was visible upon the white arm exposed to view. 
She doubtless owed her immunity from harm, 
and in all human probability the safety of her 
life, to the enormous bodily strength of Claud 
Tyars. 

It was she who spoke first. 


EASTON’S BOX 


191 

“ Your arm ! ” she said, pointing to Tyars’ right 
sleeve. “ Have you hurt it ? ” 

He looked down at the limb, which was hang- 
ing in a peculiar way very close to his body, with 
a vague and questioning smile, as if it were not 
his property. 

“Yes,” he said, “it is broken.” 

Miss Winter and Oswin went to his side at 
once. Helen alone remained standing at the 
table. She said no word, but continued looking 
at him with very bright eyes, her lips slightly 
parted, breathing deeply. 

He avoided meeting her glance in the same 
awkward, embarrassed way which she had no- 
ticed before; answering the'questions put to him 
with a reassuring smile. 

“ It happened,” he said, “ during the first rush. 
We fell down somewhere through some scenery, 
and my arm came underneath.” 

“You put it underneath,” corrected Helen, al- 
most coldly, “to save me, I suppose.” 

Her first feeling was unaccountably akin to an- 
ger. 

“Instinct,” he explained, tersely. 

“ Shall I fetch a doctor, or will you come with 
me ? ” asked the practical Oswin, gently forcing 
his friend into a chair. “We are surrounded by 
them in Brook Street.” 

“ I will go with you,” answered Tyars. “ But 
first, I think, we had better see that the ladies 
have some wine.” 


192 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


With his left hand he reached a decanter, but 
Miss Winter took it from him. 

“You must have some,” she said, pouring it 
out. 

“ No, thanks,” he replied; “ I think not, on ac- 
count of inflammation.” 

“ He is better without it,” added Oswin. 

Miss Winter gave a little short laugh, very sug- 
gestive of annoyance. 

“You men are so terribly practical,” she said, 
with a bantering air which was half serious. 

“An arm broken below the elbow is not so 
very serious,” explained Tyars. 

“Claud,” added Oswin Grace, “is one of 
those great strong healthy people who heal like 
horses.” 

Nevertheless he kept close to his large friend, 
and glanced at times into the colourless face with 
those keen experienced gray eyes of his. 

It was, as Tyars had said, nothing very serious 
— a simple fracture below the elbow and well 
above the wrist — but the consequences of it 
might be serious. Claud Tyars was not thinking 
of the numb, aching pain which had now spread 
right up his arm. It was only natural that the 
first thought should be for the great absorbing 
scheme which was filling his mind. In little 
more than two months he was to sail from Lon- 
don. In nine weeks he was to lead a picked 
body of men forth on an expedition of which the 
peril was patent to them all. He could not af- 


EASTON’S BOX 


193 


ford to devote his few remaining days of prepa- 
ration to his own health, to the mere recovery 
from the effects of an incident. There were a 
thousand details still to be cared for — details 
which none other but himself could grasp or cope 
with. For it is the man who reduces detail to a 
minimum in his own daily existence, and sees 
personally to that minimum, who finds time to 
do great things in life. If we hand details over 
to others — if we wish to be waited on hand and 
foot in order to find leisure for the larger items 
of the conglomerate detail called a career, we 
shall probably employ all our time in endeavour- 
ing to teach others to divine our wants. 

There are men in the world who pack their 
own bags, and others who make the task over to 
some one else. Claud Tyars was of the former; 
he habitually did his own packing. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A LATE CALL 

Refusing all offers of hospitality made by 
Oswin and his sister, Claud Tyars went off with 
his friend to the doctor’s, leaving the ladies com- 
fortably installed in armchairs by the fire. 

They protested that they could not possibly 
sleep, and that, as it was only twelve o’clock, 
they would await Oswin’s return. 

You will say, perhaps, that they were all a 
trifle too self-possessed and calm to be quite 
natural. What really took place is narrated 
above; and it is not the fault of the writer if 
these persons chose to lose a series of dramatic 
points, to ignore a number of thrilling situations, 
and to refrain from anything approaching 
heroics. 

The truth of the matter is, that ladies and gen- 
tlemen of this latter end of the nineteenth century 
are difficult subjects to write about. They will 
not, like folks upon the stage, make facial con- 
tortions capable of record as showing inward 
emotions. They will not laugh fiendish laughs, 
nor sigh “ heigho!” nor tear their hair, nor beat 
their bosoms as people did fifty years ago, if one 
may judge from fictional literature. They are so 
194 


A LATE CALL 


195 

persistently self-possessed that one cannot wring 
a dramatic situation out of them anyhow. 

We live so quickly nowadays, pass through so 
many emotions in the day, that our feelings are 
apt to lose their individuality. 

Claud Tyars merely said “ Good-night,” as he 
preceded Oswin Grace out of the room. 

And the two ladies left there sat, each in her 
deep armchair, toasting her neatly-shod toes on 
the fender, and said never a word. They both 
stared into the fire with such a marked persist- 
ence, that one might almost have suspected them 
of fearing to meet each other's glance. 

At last Helen moved. She had evidently just 
become aware of a black mark on the soft mauve 
material of her dress. With her gloved hand she 
attempted to brush it off, and as this had no 
effect began rubbing it with a tiny handkerchief. 
Then she raised her eyes. Miss Winter was 
watching her with a curious smile — a smile much 
more suggestive of pain than of pleasure. 

Their eyes met, and for some moments both 
seemed on the verge of saying something, which 
was never said. Then suddenly Helen leant for- 
ward and covered her face with her two hands. 

It is not pleasant to see a woman weep from 
whose eyes tears have never flowed since child- 
hood to eyes kindling with a strange surprise 
through tears, as if they could not understand 
what was blinding and burning them. It is often 
hard to realize sorrow, and it is always hard to 


196 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

accept it as one’s own property. With some the 
power of assimilating sorrow is merely a matter 
of tears, with others it is a dryer process. Most 
people, however, and especially in this genera- 
tion, weep but once or twice in their whole lives. 
Again, most do it in solitude, so that others are 
spared the sight. It seemed to come to Helen 
Grace without premonition as a harsh surprise — 
just as death will come to some. She had no 
time to fly to her own room — no chance of exer- 
cising over herself that command which she had 
learnt from living with men alone. 

It is just possible that Miss Winter was not 
without experience in these same tears. One 
can never be quite sure of these very cheery 
women whom one meets everywhere. She 
made no attempts at consolation. She did not 
look toward her friend, and there was no out- 
ward sign even of sympathy, except that her 
eyes glistened in a peculiar way. She merely 
waited, and, moreover, she had not long to do 
so. Helen recovered herself as suddenly as she 
had given way, and rising from her chair, stood 
with her shoulder turned toward her friend, her 
two hands upon the mantelpiece, looking down 
into the fire. Her attitude, moral and physical, 
was reflective. 

“I wonder,” she said, “if every one got out 
of the theatre.” 

“Mr. Easton promised to come and tell us,” 
answered Miss Winter. 


A LATE CALL 


197 


“ To-night ?” 

“Yes.” 

The girl raised her head and looked critically 
at her own reflection in the old-fashioned mirror 
above the fireplace. The trace of tears had al- 
most vanished from her young eyes — it is only 
older countenances that bear the marks for long. 

Before she moved again the sound of cab- 
wheels made itself audible in the street, and the 
vehicle was heard to stop at the door. 

Miss Winter rose and went to let in the new- 
comer. 

It was Matthew Mark Easton. He followed 
Miss Winter into the dining-room, walking 
lightly — an unnecessary precaution, for his step 
was like that of a child. 

“I do not know,” he was saying, “the 
etiquette observed in England on these points, 
but I could not resist coming along to see if you 
had arrived safely.” 

“Yes — thanks,” replied Helen, to whom the 
latter part of the remark was addressed. 

“No one hurt, 1 trust?” continued he. 

“Yes,” answered the girl gently; “Mr. Tyars 
is hurt — his arm is broken.” 

Easton’s mobile lips closed together with a 
snap, betraying the fact that he had allowed him- 
self the luxury of an expletive in his reprehensi- 
ble American way. He turned aside, and walked 
backward and forward for a few minutes, like a 
man made restless by the receipt of very bad news. 


198 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

He glanced at the face of each lady in turn, and 
concluded that Helen was more sympathetic than 
Miss Winter in this matter. In a moment he 
conceived the idea that Agnes Winter was by no 
means grieved that Tyars should have met with 
an accident. 

He had never considered her a scheming 
woman, but his conception of her character was 
that she possessed very decided opinions of her 
own, and was quite capable of acting up to them 
against the strongest opposition. For some rea- 
son, then, she was decidedly opposed to the ex- 
pedition about to be undertaken by Tyars and 
Oswin. He had always suspected opposition in 
that quarter, but it had hitherto been passive, as 
feminine opposition is often compelled to be. 
This deliberate refusal, however, to simulate a 
sympathy she did not feel was something more 
than passive. 

“Not a compound fracture, I hope?” he said 
tersely, while turning these things over in his 
mind. 

“He thinks not,” answered Helen, reseating 
herself. 

“Was he in pain ? ” 

“I do not know,” replied the girl, in a tone- 
less, mechanical way, which brought the quick, 
monkey-like eyes down upon her like lightning. 

It was the matter of a second only. Like a 
serpent’s fang the man’s keen eyes flashed to- 
ward her and away again. The nervous face 


A LATE CALL 


199 


instantly assumed an expression as near stolidity 
as could be compassed by features each and all 
laden with an exceptional intelligence. Then he 
turned away, and took up a broken fan lying on 
the supper-table, opening it tenderly and critic- 
ally. 

But Miss Winter was as quick as he. She 
knew then that he had guessed. Whatever he 
might have suspected before, she had no doubt 
now that Matthew Mark Easton knew that Helen 
loved Claud Tyars. 

“The worst of it,” he broke out, with sudden 
airiness, “is that there was no fire at all. It was 
extinguished on the stage. The performance 
might have been continued.” 

“It only makes it more horrible,” said Miss 
Winter; “for I suppose there — were some 
killed?” 

“That is so,” he answered. “They took 
forty-two corpses out of our box alone.” 

“1 did not know,” said Helen, after a painful 
pause, “that it was so bad as that.” 

Easton looked at her with his quaint little wist- 
ful smile. 

“Yes,” he said, with transatlantic deliberation, 
“it was very bad. We were fortunate. The 
Almighty has something else for us to do yet, I 
surmise.” 

“We ought to be very thankful,” said the girl, 
simply. 

“ Ya — as; and no doubt we are. I am.” 


200 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


He gravely pulled down his waistcoat, and 
stood with his legs apart, looking down at his 
own diminutive boots. 

The ladies noticed that he bore no signs of his 
recent experience. He had doubtless called in at 
his club to wash and tidy himself before appear- 
ing at Brook Street. His left hand was neatly 
bandaged with white linen. 

“Grace,” he inquired, “is not hurt, I hope?” 

“No, I think not. His hands were scratched 
— like yours,” answered Miss Winter. 

“ It comes,” explained Easton, looking tenderly 
at his injured knuckles, “from hitting in the dark. 
I came in contact with some very hard things — 
possibly British skulls.” 

Presently Oswin Grace came in, opening the 
front door with his latch-key. He was greeted 
by an interrogatory “Well?” from Miss Winter. 

“He is all right,” he answered. “It was a 
simple fracture. Barker set it very nicely, and I 
sent him off to his club in a cab.” 

“Then,” said Easton, holding out his hand to 
say good-bye, “ I shall go and help him into bed 
— tuck him in, and sing a soft lullaby over his 
pillow. Good-night, Miss Winter. Good-night, 
Miss Grace.” 

Miss Winter slept at Brook Street that night, 
according to previous arrangement. She was 
soon left alone in her bedroom. Helen com- 
plained of sleepiness, and, contrary to her custom, 
did not return to brush her hair before her 


A LATE CALL 


201 


friend’s fire — a mysterious operation, entailing 
the loss of an hour’s sleep, and accompanied by 
considerable conversation. 

The elder lady did not appear to be suffering 
from drowsiness. Indeed, she was very wide 
awake. She threw herself upon the bed, all 
dressed, in an oddly girlish pose, and lay there 
thinking. 

“If it had been any other man,” she meditated 
aloud, “I should have said that he could not pos- 
sibly go now; but with him one cannot tell. 
The arm would hardly stop him, though some- 
thing — else — might. Poor Claud Tyars! the 
naivete with which he displayed a perfect indif- 
ference as to my life was instructive.” 


CHAPTER XX 


FROM AFAR 

One morning, about a fortnight later, Matthew 
Mark Easton received a letter which caused him 
to leave his breakfast untasted and drive off in 
the first hansom-cab he could find to Tyars’ club. 

The waiter whose duty it was to look after the 
few resident members, informed the American, 
whom he knew well by sight, that Mr. Tyars 
was not downstairs yet. 

“Well,” replied Easton, “I guess I’ll wait for 
him; in fact I am going to have breakfast with 
him — a boiled egg and two pieces of thin toast.” 

He was shown into the room occupied by 
Tyars, and proceeded to make himself exceed- 
ingly comfortable, in a large armchair, with the 
morning newspaper. 

Tyars was not long in making his appearance. 
At his heels walked Muggins — the grave, the 
pink-eyed. Muggins was far too gentlemanly a 
dog to betray by sign or sound that he considered 
this visitor’s behaviour a trifle too familiar. 

“Good-morning — captain, "said Easton, cheer- 
ily. “Well, Muggins — I trust 1 see you in the 
enjoyment of health.” 

The violent chuck under the chin with which 


202 


FROM AFAR 


203 


this hope was emphasized, received scant ac- 
knowledgment from a very stumpy tail. The 
truth was that Matthew Mark Easton was no 
great favourite with Muggins. He was not his 
sort. Muggins had never been a frivolous dog, 
and now that puppy-hood was past, he affected 
a solemnity of demeanour worthy of his position 
in life. He looked upon the American as a man 
lacking self-respect. 

“I have news,” said Easton at once, laying 
aside the newspaper; “news from old Smith — 
Pavloski Smith.” 

“Where from.^” inquired Tyars, without en- 
thusiasm. 

“ From Tomsk! It is most extraordinary how 
these fellows manage to elude the police. Here 
is old Pavloski — an escaped Siberian exile — a 
man they would give their boots to lay their 
hands on — goes back to Russia, smuggles him- 
self across the German frontier, shows that 
solemn face of his unblushingly in Petersburg, 
and finally posts off to Tomsk with a lot of con- 
traband luggage as a merchant. I thought I had 
a fair allowance of cheek, but these political fel- 
lows are far ahead of me. Their cheek and their 
calm assurance are simply unbounded!” 

“The worst of it,” said Tyars, turning over 
his letters with small interest, “ is that the end is 
always the same. They all overdo it sooner or 
later.” 

“ Yes,” admitted the American, whose sensi- 


204 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


tive face betrayed a passing discomfort; “but it 
is no good thinking of that now.” 

“Not a bit,” acquiesced Tyars. “Only I shall 
be rather surprised if I meet those three men up 
there. It would be better luck than one could 
reasonably expect.” 

“If one of them gets through with his party, 
all concerned should be very well pleased with 
themselves,” said Easton. “Now listen to what 
Pavloski says.” 

He unfolded a letter, which was apparently a 
commercial communication written on the ordi- 
nary mail paper of a merchant, and bearing the 
printed address of an office in Cronstadt. 

On the first page was a terse advice, written in 
a delicate clerkly hand, of the receipt by Hull 
steamer of a certain number of casks containing 
American apples. 

“ This,” said Easton, “ is from our stout friend. 
He has received the block soups, and the Win- 
chester cartridges.” 

He then opened the letter farther, and on the 
two inside pages displayed a closely written 
communication in a peculiar pink-tinted ink, 
which had evidently been brought to light by 
some process, for the paper was wrinkled and 
blistered. 

“‘I have,’” read the American, slowly, as if 
deciphering with difficulty, “‘reached Tomsk 
without mishap, travelling with an ordinary civil- 
ian post-pass, which is very little slower at this 


FROM AFAR 


205 


time of year, as there are plenty of horses. I 
have bought a strong sledge, wholly covered in 
— the usual sledge of a merchant of fine goods — 
and instead of sleeping in the stations, usually 
lie down on the top of my cases under the cover. 
I give as reason for this the information that I 
have many valuables — watches, rings, trinkets — 
and being a young merchant, cannot run the risk 
of theft to save my own personal comfort. I 
have travelled day and night, according to the 
supply of horses, but have always succeeded 
hitherto in communicating with those who are 
to follow me. One man on my list was not in 
the prison indicated — he is probably dead. 1 find 
great improvements. Our organization is more 
mechanical, and not so hysterical — this I attribute 
to the diminished number of female workers. 
All the articles with which your foresight pro- 
vided me have been useful; but the great motor 
in Siberia is money. With the funds I have at 
my disposal 1 feel as powerful as the Czar. I 
can buy whom I like, and what I like. The 
watches will be very useful; I have sold two at a 
high price; but once beyond Irkutsk, I will sell 
or give one to the master of each important sta- 
tion, or to the starosta of each village. By this 
means those who follow me will know that they 
are on the right track. They cannot well stop 
at a station, or halt in a village, without being 
shown the watch, which will tell them that one 
of us is in front. I have enough watches to lay 


2o6 prisoners and CAPTIVES 


a train from Irkutsk to the spot where I assemble 
my party. I met my two companions by ap- 
pointment at the base of the Ivan Veliki tower in 
the Kremlin, and we spent half an hour in the 
cathedral together within a musket-shot of the 
Czar, and under the very nose of the cream of 
his police. Since then we have not met, but are 
each working forward by the prescribed route 
alone. I see great changes here — Russia is awak- 
ening — she is rubbing her eyes. God keep you 
all three!”’ 

Matthew Mark Easton indicated by a little jerk 
of the head that the letter was finished. Then 
after looking at it curiously for a moment, he 
folded it and put it away in his pocket. 

“Old Smith,” he said, “is quite poetic at 
times.” 

“ Yes,” answered Tyars, pouring out his coffee, 
“ but there is a keen business man behind the 
poetry.” 

“One,” observed Easton in his terse way, “of 
the sharpest needles in Russia, and quite the 
sharpest in Siberia at the present moment.” 

“He will need to be; though I think that the 
worst of his journey is over. The cream is, as 
he says, at Moscow. Once beyond Nijni he will 
find milk, then milk-and-water, and finally be- 
yond Irkutsk the thinnest water. The official in- 
tellect in Siberia is not of a brilliant description. 
Pavloski can outwit every gendarme or Cossack 
commandant he meets, and once out of Irkutsk 


FROM AFAR 


207 


they need not fear the law. They will only have 
Nature to compete with, and Nature always gives 
fair play. When they have assembled they will 
retreat north like an organized army before a 
rabble, for there are not enough Cossacks and 
gendarmes in Northern Siberia to form anything 
like an efficient corps of pursuit. They may fol- 
low, but I shall have the fugitives on board and 
away long before they reach the seaboard.” 

“ How many are there in Yakutsk 

“Two thousand altogether, soldiers and Cos- 
sacks. They have no means of transport and no 
commissariat corps. By the time that the news 
travels south to Yakutsk, that there is a body of 
supposed exiles to the north, our men will have 
gained such an advantage that pursuit would be 
absurd.” 

“It seems,” replied Easton, “so very simple, 
that I wonder no one has tried it before.” 

At this moment the waiter entered the room 
with several hot dishes, but the two men went 
on discussing openly the question mooted. 
Club-waiters are the nearest approach to a hu- 
man machine that modern civilization has yet 
produced. 

“Simply because no one has had the money. 
I know several whaling captains who would be 
ready enough to try, provided they were paid! 
The worst danger was the chance of the three 
men being captured as soon as they entered Rus- 
sia. They are now at their posts in Siberia. In 


3o8 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


May they meet surreptitiously on the southern 
slope of the Verkoianiska, cross the mountains, 
and they are safe. The three leaders will then 
be together, and they will retreat north as ar- 
ranged, scaring the Yamschicks into obedience, 
and taking all the post-deer and dogs with them, 
so that an immediate pursuit will be impossible. 
I think,” added the organizer of this extraordi- 
nary plot, that we shall succeed.” 

Easton was silent. His boiled egg had arrived, 
and his keen little face was screwed up into 
earnest inquiry as he gently broke the shell with 
a spoon. He was a strange mixture of the triv- 
ial and the great, this sharp-witted American; 
but he was intensely conscious of his own shal- 
lowness. He could touch great things, but he 
could not grasp them ; he could give attention to 
trifles, but he could not allot to them just that 
modicum of thought which would suffice. In 
the position which he had occupied during the 
last two months, namely, the chief superintend- 
ent of trifles, he was excellent. But without the 
directing control of Claud Tyars he would prob- 
ably have given all his attention to small things, 
neglecting or fearing to touch the great. He 
would have regarded the pence too closely, fail- 
ing to make sure that the pounds were safe. 
There was no lack of courage, but a distinct 
want of power, and this deficiency became sin- 
gularly apparent in intercourse with Claud Tyars. 


CHAPTER XXI 


TRAPPED 

Tyars was too busy, he said, to pay calls at 
this time. So he contented himself with learn- 
ing from Easton and Grace that the ladies were 
none the worse for their fright. One evening he 
received a note from Miss Winter asking him to 
call next day as she had found a situation for 
young Peters, the ship-keeper’s son. Miss Win- 
ter asked him to call in the morning. 

He accordingly despatched his labourious cor- 
respondence as quickly as a cramped left hand 
would allow. He was not dressed in the tar- 
stained old suit donned for dock-work. 

He set off westward at a swinging pace, and 
deliberately walked into the trap set for him by 
Miss Winter. This was so simple, and it suc- 
ceeded so smoothly, that the lady whose well- 
intentioned deceit it was stood almost breathless 
in her own bedroom, pressing her hand to her 
breast and wondering whether she should laugh 
or cry. 

The maid answering his summons swung the 
door so wide open as to leave no doubt of his 
welcome and expectation. Miss Winter was in, 
would he step upstairs ? This he did with rather 

209 


210 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


less agility than when he had possessed two arms 
to swing. He was shown into the drawing- 
room, and for a moment imagined himself alone. 
Then he was conscious of a sound of smooth 
dress material, and a lady rose from the music- 
stool, partially concealed by the piano placed 
cornerwise near the window. It was a gloomy 
morning, and she stood with her back toward 
the light, and her face consequently in the 
shadow. But Tyars saw at once that this was 
not Agnes Winter; indeed the sight brought a 
quick contraction of pain to eyes and lips. He 
knew only too well every curve and outline of 
head and form placed in silhouette against the 
lace curtains. 

They knew that they had been both tricked, 
and the sudden knowledge of it seemed to sweep 
all social formula away, for they never greeted 
each other. Something in the girl’s attitude (for 
he could not see her eyes) told the man then that 
he had not this thing to bear alone. His sorrow 
was hers; that which weighed upon his broad 
back almost crushed her slight shoulders beneath 
its weight. This great heavenly light, this opaque 
darkness, had crept into her heart as into his, 
against the defence of a stubborn will. It was 
so new to both, so utterly surprising, so com- 
pletely unlooked for, that both alike were dazed. 
Since its advent, both had walked on with un- 
certain steps, staggering vaguely beneath a new 
and wholly bewildering responsibility; some- 


TRAPPED 


21 1 

thing that seemed to have no beginning and no 
end on earth; something that tugged at the heart 
and cast a great veil of indifference over all pleas- 
ures and all trivial occupations; something that 
brings our everyday life suddenly forward like a 
cunning stage-light cast from the wings, and 
builds up behind the daily round of toil and 
pleasure a vague shimmering perspective of 
which the dimmest distance is Heaven. 

When a strong man gets a fever, the doctor 
shakes his head: when a strong heart has this 
pain it is pain indeed. 

At last the girl moved. She came toward him, 
only a few paces, and then stopped. She had 
emerged from the shadow, and the whiteness of 
her face struck him like a blow. 

“Agnes," she said, steadily, “has just gone 
upstairs." 

He nodded his head in a sharp, comprehensive 
way. 

“I did not expect to find you here," was his re- 
ply, less inconsequent than might at first appear. 

She crossed the room, passing close by him, 
so that a breath of cool air reached him. Her 
intention was evidently to ring the bell, but her 
strength of purpose seemed to fail her at the 
last moment, and she stood undecided upon the 
hearth-rug with her back turned toward him. 

“ Had you known — ?” she began. 

“I think," he completed, “that I should not 
have come," 


212 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Her eyelids quivered for a second, and the 
faintest suggestion of a sad smile flickered across 
her lips. He did not know that he was making 
matters worse, making her burden doubly heavy. 
He did not know that this very strength of his 
was what she loved. He was very far from sus- 
pecting that she had foreseen his answer before 
she asked the strange question. He would have 
been intensely surprised to learn that, although 
her back was turned toward him, she saw his 
attitude, the quiescent strength of each limb as 
he stood upright, patient, and gentle, tearing out 
his heart and trampling it underfoot. He never 
saw the shadowy little smile, nor knew its pa- 
thetic meaning. 

And so he kept his secret, he held his peace 
despite a gnawing temptation to speak. He al- 
lowed her to continue thinking, if so indeed she 
thought, that he was sacrificing her to his own 
ambition, as Miss Winter honestly believed. He 
never told her that he was compelled to carry 
out his perilous scheme because he was bound in 
honour. It was high-flown, unpractical, Quixotic. 

That singular sense of familiarity seemed to 
have come to them again, as it had come once 
before. There was no explanation, and they yet 
understood each other well enough. It seemed 
as if they had known each other all their lives, 
almost as if they had met in some other life. 
She turned and looked across the room at him 
with drawn and weary eyes in which there was 


TRAPPED 


213 


yet a smile as if to tell him that she was strong, 
that he need not fear for her. And he met her 
gaze with that self-suppressing gravity. He had 
set bounds for himself, and beyond these he 
would not step an inch, not even for her. He 
would not tell her that he loved her. Here was 
a man who not only had principles, but actually 
acted up to them instead of seeking to make 
others do so. For we all have principles appli- 
cable to the conduct of our neighbours. 

“ Can you tell me,” he said at length, “ whether 
this is accidental or intentional ?” 

'‘This meeting?” 

“Yes.” 

She shook her head. 

“I cannot say,” she answered, loyal to her 
friend. She knew that if it was intentional, 
Agnes Winter was not the woman to do such a 
thing wantonly. 

He answered his own question. 

“It must,” he said, judicially, “have been in- 
tended. Of course with every good motive — but 
it was a little cruel.” 

“She did not know,” pleaded the girl. “She 
did not understand. Perhaps we are not quite 
the same as other people.” 

“You are not,” he answered, slowly; “there 
is no one like you.” 

It is probable that such words had been spoken 
to her before, for there are men who seek to raise 
themselves in the esteem of others by flattery, 


214 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


and if she had passed through a few London 
seasons without meeting some samples, she must 
have been singularly lucky. But the words were 
spoken so simply and with so much straight- 
forward honesty that the veriest prude could 
not have taken offence. She had apparently no 
thought of such a thing. 

She glanced at him, and then her gaze fell on 
nothing more interesting than a somewhat an- 
cient carpet. This was more or less appropriate, 
for in her eyes there was ancient history — the 
most ancient of all — older than any Egyptian 
record. Dreams ! 

Before either had spoken again, their opportu- 
nity of ever doing so was taken from them, for 
Miss Winter was heard approaching, singing as 
she came. She opened the door noisily, and 
came into the room, rather too slowly, consider- 
ing the emphasis with which the handle had been 
turned. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, without surprise, “you 
have come. It is very good of you, for Oswin 
tells me you are very busy.” 

She looked at him very keenly, but never 
glanced in the direction of Helen, who was ar- 
ranging some untidy music on the top of the 
piano. 

“Yes,” he answered, rather vaguely, “I have 
a good deal to do.” 

“ It is,” she hastened to say, in her most prac- 
tical way, “about Tim— what is his name.^"” 


TRAPPED 


215 


“ Peters ? ” suggested he. 

“Peters — yes. You never forget anything.” 

“I do not forget very much,” he admitted, in 
the same perfunctory way, but he looked over 
her head toward Helen, which made the quick- 
witted little woman of the world think that 
perhaps the remark was not intended for her in- 
formation alone. 

“A friend of mine,” she continued, “a Mr. 
Mason, wants a boy on board his yacht, and I 
thought that Peters would do, if you are not 
taking him with you.” 

“No,” quietly, “I am not taking him with 
me.” 

“Then 1 may send young Peters to see Mr. 
Mason ?” 

“Certainly. 1 am much obliged to you for 
troubling.” 

He was at his stilfest. She had seen from the 
threshold that her plot had failed, and it was 
just one of those plots which cannot afford to 
fail. Success would have made her a benefactor 
to both, but success had not come to her, and 
she recognized instantly the falseness of her posi- 
tion. She knew this man well enough to foresee 
that he would never forgive her; for, as he him- 
self had said, he was not of those who forget. 
She knew that this little plot, which had been 
hatched in a minute, and executed in ten, would 
alter the friendship between herself and this man 
during the rest of their lives. And she had al- 


2I6 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


ways liked him; from the first she had been 
drawn toward him insensibly. Perhaps this 
feeling unnerved her. It is just possible that 
something might have been said or done just 
then which would have altered everything. 
There are moments when our lives hang on a 
balance, and in such times we cannot do btaer 
than did Claud Tyars; we cannot do better than 
throw boldly in the weight of duty, which is the 
truest weight and measure placed in our mortal 
hands. 

Agnes Winter was fully aware that between 
herself and Claud Tyars no explanation would 
take place. He was not the sort of man to listen 
to or offer explanations. She knew that he 
would never speak of this incident, and felt that 
her own courage would fail her to broach the 
subject. 

There was nothing for it but to let him go. 
She had been actuated by the best motives. It 
was not her own happiness, but that of her dear- 
est friend for which she had schemed. She had 
played a bold game, and now her hand — the 
losing hand — lay exposed. There was nothing 
to do but to accept defeat. She did it as pluckily 
as she could, shaking hands and smiling into 
his grave face as he left the room. 

When he was gone the two women returned 
to their separate occupations. Helen opened a 
music-book, and arranged it upon the stand, as a 
preliminary to seating herself at the piano. 


TRAPPED 


217 


Miss Winter had some letters to write. She 
drew a little table toward the fire, and made a 
certain small fuss in opening inkstand and blot- 
ting-book; but she did not commence writing, 
and somehow or other Helen did not begin to 
pHy. She turned the pages, and seemed uncer- 
tafn as to the selection of a piece. 

At last the elder woman looked up — or, to be 
more correct, she raised her head, and looked 
into the bright fire, touching her lips reflectively 
with the feathers of a quill pen. 

“ He looks worn and tired," she said. 

‘'Yes," answered the girl, softly, and in that 
little word there was a whole world. 


CHAPTER XXII 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 

At the risk of being accused of betraying the 
secrets of the sex, this opportunity is taken of re- 
cording an observation made respecting men. It 
is simply this, that they all turn sooner or later to 
some woman in their difficulties. And when a 
man has gone irretrievably to the dogs, his de- 
scent is explicable by the simple argument that 
he happened to turn to the wrong woman. 

Matthew Mark Easton had hitherto got along 
fairly well without feminine interference, but 
this is in no manner detracted from his respect 
for feminine astuteness. This respect now 
urged him to brush his hat very carefully one 
afternoon, purchase a new flower for his but- 
tonhole, and drive to Miss Winter’s. 

He found that lady at home and alone. 

“I thought,” he said, as he entered the room 
and placed his hat carefully on the piano, “that 
I should find you at home this afternoon. It is 
so English outside. Excuse my apparent solici- 
tude for my hat. It is a new one. Left its pred- 
ecessor at the Epic.” 

“The weather does not usually affect my 
movements,” replied Miss Winter. “I am glad 
218 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


219 

you came this afternoon, because I am not often 
to be found at home at this time.’' 

Oh! ” he answered, coolly, as he accepted the 
chair she indicated. “I should have gone on 
coming right along till 1 found you in.” 

Easton’s way of making remarks of this de- 
scription sometimes made an answer superfluous, 
and Miss Winter took it in this light now. She 
laughed and said nothing, obviously waiting for 
him to start some new subject. 

He sat quietly and looked with perfect self- 
possession, not at the carpet or the ceiling, as is 
usual on such occasions, but at her. At last it 
was borne in upon him that he had not called for 
this purpose, pleasant as the exercise of it might 
be; so he spoke. 

“Then,” he said, conversationally, “you go 
out mostly in the afternoons ?” 

“Yes; I am out a great deal. I have calls to 
make and shops to look at, and I often have tea 
with Helen.” 

His little nod seemed to say, “ Yes; I know of 
that friendship.” 

“And,” he continued, with a vast display of 
the deepest interest, “ 1 surmise that you go in a 
close carriage, so that the weather does not hin- 
der you.” 

“No; I only have an open carriage, a Victoria.” 

“Ah!” 

“It is a very convenient vehicle, so easy of ac- 
cess.” 


220 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“Yes; so I should surmise.” 

“And it is light for the horse.” 

“Runs easily.?” he inquired, almost eagerly. 

“Yes, it runs easily.” 

Then they seemed to come to a full-stop again. 
She racked her brain for some subject of sulficient 
interest and not too far removed from the safe 
topic of weather. 

It was a ludicrous position for two persons of 
their experience and savoir-faire. At last Miss 
Winter gave way to a sudden impulse without 
waiting to think to what end the beginning 
might lead. 

“ How is Mr. Tyars ?” she asked. 

“He is well,” was the answer, “thank you. 
His arm is knitting nicely.” 

There was a little pause, then he added with a 
marked drawl (an Americanism to which he 
rarely gave way) — 

“ Ho — w is Miss Grace .?” 

Agnes Winter looked up sharply. They had 
got there already, and her loyalty to friend and 
sex was up in arms. And yet she had foreseen 
it surely all along. She had known from the 
moment of his entering the room that this point 
was destined to be reached. 

Matthew Mark Easton met her gaze with a 
half smile. His own quick glance was alert and 
mobile. His look seemed to flit from her eyes to 
her lips and from her lips to her hands with a spark- 
ling vitality impossible to follow. They seemed 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


221 


to be taking mental measure each of the other in 
friendly antagonism, like two fencers with but- 
toned foils. 

She gave a little short laugh, half pleased, half 
embarrassed, like the laugh of some fair masker 
when she finds herself forced to lay aside her 
mask. 

“I wonder,” she said, “how much you 
know! ” 

The strange, wrinkled face fell at once into an 
expression of gravity which rendered it some- 
what wistful and almost ludicrous. 

“Nothing — I guess! ” 

“How much you surmise . . she 

amended, unconsciously using a word toward 
which he had a decided penchant. 

“Everything. My mind is in a fevered state 
of surmise.” 

He sat leaning forward with his arms resting 
on his dapper knees, with a keen, expectant look 
upon his nervous face. He was just a little sug- 
gestive of a monkey waiting to catch a nut. 

The lady leant back in her chair meditating 
deeply. She was viewing her position, and per- 
haps remembering that her acquaintance with 
this man was but of three months’ growth. 

“Is there anything to be done?” she asked, 
after a lengthened pause. 

“I counted,” he answered, “that I would put 
that question to you.” 

She nodded her head gravely. 


122 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“ I thought perhaps that as you had come to 
me, you wished me to help you in something.” 

He looked distressed, for her meaning was 
obvious. 

“No — I came to you . « . because . . . 

well, because you seemed the right person to 
come to.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ That is a mistake.” 

“ Why .?” he asked. 

“Don’t you see that I can do nothing, that I 
am powerless ?” 

He shook his head before replying tersely — 

“Can’t say I do. I do not know how these 
things are done in England, but . . .” 

She interrupted him with a short laugh in 
which there was a noticeable ring of annoyance. 

“It is not a question of how they are done in 
England. There can only be one way of doing 
it all the world over.” 

“ And who is to do it. Miss Winter?” 

“You, Mr. Easton.” 

“And,” he continued imperturbably, “what 
am I to do ?” 

“Well . . c I should go to Mr. Tyars and 

say: ‘Claud Tyars, you cannot go on this ex- 
pedition — you have no right to sacrifice the 
happiness of ... of another to the gratifi- 
cation of your own personal ambition.’ ” 

“I can’t do that,” he said, deliberately. 

“Won’t,” she corrected. 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


223 


Can’t,” he persisted, politely. 

*^Why.?” 

I can’t tell you.” 

“ Won’t, again,” she commented. 

** 1 do not see,” he argued, defending himself in 
anticipation, “that any one is to blame. It is an 
unforeseen accident; a misfortune.” 

“ It is a great misfortune.” 

“And yet,” he pleaded, looking at her in a 
curious way, “it could not have been foreseen. 
We are all of us liable to such misfortunes. I 
had no reason to suspect that Tyars was more 
liable than myself. It might have happened to 
me. 

“Yes,” she answered, more softly, without 
raising her eyes. “Yes, it might.” 

He had uttered the words in such a manner as 
to render the thought infinitely ludicrous. She 
thought that such a thing might happen to him. 
And yet somehow she failed to laugh. Per- 
haps there was an undercurrent of pathos in the 
thin pleasant voice, into which her thoughts had 
drifted. 

“1 cannot say,” she continued, “that 1 fore- 
saw it, for that was impossible. There was no 
time. But ... I think 1 knew it the mo- 
ment 1 saw them together, when Oswin brought 
him to dine at Brook Street. They had met be- 
fore, some years ago, at Oxford, you know.” 

“Then,” he said, in a relieved tone, “ 1 surmise 
the matter is out of our hands.” 


224 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


'‘It never was in our hands, Mr. Easton,” cor- 
rected the lady. 

He looked wistfully uneasy, as if caught in the 
act of enunciating high treason. 

“No,” he said, meekly. 

“Such matters are rarely in the hands of out- 
siders, and in those rare cases only to a very 
small extent.” 

“No — yes,” he conceded with additional 
meekness. 

In his airy way Matthew Mark Easton was a 
wise man. He held his peace and waited. In 
the expressive language of his native land, it may 
be said that he let the lady “have the floor.” 
The question was one upon which he eagerly al- 
lowed his companion to have the first and longest 
say. He was rather awed by the proportions of 
it, treated generally, and by the intricacies of the 
individual illustration of which he formed an un- 
willing figure. 

“I have done my best,” she said, “to put a 
stop to this extremely foolish expedition. I no- 
tice you look surprised, Mr. Easton ; that is hardly 
complimentary, for it would insinuate that my 
efforts were so puny as to have been overlooked 
entirely.” 

He denied this with an expressive gesture of 
the hand. 

“Of course,” she continued, “if men choose 
to risk their lives unnecessarily, I suppose there 
is no actual law to stop them. But they should 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


225 


first look round in their own home circle, and 
see that their lives are entirely their own to 
risk. Foolhardiness, entailing anxiety for oth- 
ers, is little short of a crime. Men lose sight 
of this fact very often in their desire to con- 
vince the world of their courage and enterprise. 
Claud Tyars ought never to have gone to Brook 
Street.” 

“ But how was he to know ? ” 

“He knew,” said the lady, deliberately, “that 
he loved Helen. He knew that he had loved her 
ever since he was a boy.” 

“But,” argued Easton, “the fact of his loving 
her could scarcely be looked upon as a crime so 
long as he kept it to himself. Tyars is deep. I 
do not often know what he is driving at myself. 
He never asked Miss Grace to reciprocate his 
feelings.” 

Miss Winter laughed in derision. 

“What have I done.? I surmise I’ve made a 
joke,” said Easton. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “ But you obviously 
know so little about it. Do you actually imagine 
that Helen Grace does not know, and has not 
known all along, that Claud Tyars looks upon 
her as the only woman in the world, so far as he 
is concerned ?” 

“I have hitherto imagined that. Miss Win- 
ter.” 

“Then you have never been in love.” 

He looked at her with twinkling eyes, and 


226 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


seemed to be on the point of saying something 
which, however, he never did, and she continued 
rather hurriedly — 

“Let me warn you,” she said, “against a very 
common error. Men, and especially young men, 
are in the habit of believing that women evolve 
a love for them out of their own inner conscious- 
ness. They go about the world with a pleased 
sense of uncertainty as to the number of maidens 
who have fixed, hopelessly and unsought, their 
wayward affections upon them.” 

Easton acknowledged the truth of this state- 
ment by a quick nod of the head. 

“You may take it,” continued the lady, “as a 
rule almost without exception, that girls never 
give their love to a man unsought. The man 
may not speak of his love, but he betrays it, and 
the result is the same. A girl may admire a 
man, she may be ready to love him, but the only 
thing that can attract her love is his. I know I 
am right in this, Mr. Easton. It is the fashion to 
rant about the incomprehensibility of women, 
but we understand each other. If Mr. Tyars had 
been indifferent to Helen she would never . . .” 

She stopped, arrested by a quick movement of 
his hand. 

“Don’t!” he said, with that peculiar delibera- 
tion which is a transatlantic demonstration of 
shyness; “don’t say any more on that point. 
There are certain things which we men do not 
like discussing.” 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


2T] 

She gave a little laugh, and changed colour like 
a girl. 

“ 1 admire your chivalry,” she said. 

“1 did not know,” he answered, simply, '‘that 
it was chivalry. If it is. Miss Grace has taught 
it to me. It is her due. She reminds me of an 
old picture 1 must have seen somewhere when I 
was a little chap. Such girls must have lived in 
England when we roamed in the backwoods. 
We have none like them in my country. Dis- 
cuss Tyars as much as you like, but do not let us 
talk about Miss Grace.” 

“1 believe,” said the lady, “that you are half 
in love with her yourself.” 

“No,” he answered, gravely, “1 am not, be- 
cause . . . well, no matter.” 

“1 wish,” Agnes Winter went on to add, in 
that peculiarly hurried way previously noticed, 
“that we knew what to do.” 

“1,” he said, “can only tell you one thing, 
namely, that Claud Tyars will go on this expedi- 
tion. Nothing will prevent that. Besides — he 
must go.” 

“Why.?” pleaded the lady, using unscrupu- 
lously all her powers of fascination, all the per- 
suasion of her eyes. 

“1 cannot tell you.” 

“ You are as determined a man as Claud Tyars 
himself.” 

“ 1 am, 1 reckon — in some things.” 

“Surely you can trust me, Mr. Easton.” 


228 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


He moved uneasily in his seat, and she, taking 
advantage of his hesitation, leant forward with 
her two hands held out in supplication; then he 
seemed to yield. 

“Because,” he said, in an even, emotionless 
voice, “Claud Tyars has bound himself to go, 
and I will not let him off his contract! It is my 
expedition.” 

He hardly expected her to believe it, knowing 
Tyars and himself as she did. But he was quite 
aware that he laid himself open to a blow on the 
sorest spot in his heart. 

“Then why do you not go yourself, Mr. 
Easton ? ” 

He winced under it all the same, though he 
made no attempt to justify himself. She had 
touched his pride, and there is no prouder man 
on earth than a high-bred American. He merely 
sat and endeavoured to keep his lips still, as 
Tyars would have managed to do. In a second 
Miss Winter saw the result of the taunt, and her 
generous heart was softened. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said; “I know there 
must be some good reason.” 

She waited in order to give him an opportu- 
nity of setting forth his good reason, but he re- 
fused to take it, and she never had the satisfac- 
tion of hearing it from his own lips. 

At this moment the front-door bell gave a 
good old-fashioned peal in the basement, and 
Easton rose to his feet at once. 


EASTON TAKES COUNSEL 


229 


*‘I believe,” he said, “that it would be inex- 
pedient for me to be seen here by Miss Grace, or 
Oswin, or Tyars. They would know what we 
had been talking about.” 

Miss Winter saw the correctness of his judg- 
ment. 

“Yes,” she answered, “I expect it is Helen. 
Come into this second drawing-room. When 
you hear this door opened, go out of the other 
and downstairs. Good-bye. Come and see me 
again.” 

“ I will,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 

Even the watched pot boils in time. There 
comes an end to all things. The painter finally 
lays aside his brush; the writer at last presses his 
blotting-paper over “Finis.” The composer 
must some day dot in the last chord to his opera. 
And these men in reaching the close of their la- 
bour complete an era of their lives. The printer 
also sets up “Finis” in his type, but that action 
is no item in his existence. It is only the end of 
a creation that leaves its mark upon the heart; — 
it is only those who create who lose something 
when their work is done — who pass on in life 
with a sense of vacancy somewhere in their be- 
ing. For that creation, whether it be picture, 
book, or opus, is part of the man; it has the 
scent and impress of his Soul, and from his Soul 
a portion of its virtue has gone out. And yet 
the completed work is always there — the creator 
is always conscious of its presence, of its com- 
panionship in the world — though it stand neg- 
lected on a shelf, or hang unseen in a picture- 
seller’s back shop. 

Men who have conceived and have finally 
brought to completion some great scheme are 
230 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 


231 


partakers in this feeling. They too know the 
joy of creation — perhaps they taste the sweetness 
of success. It is to be hoped that they do, be- 
cause success is their guiding-star; it is more 
necessary to them than to the artist, who finds 
joy in the act of producing alone. 

Matthew Mark Easton did not claim for his 
scheme the magnitude of a lifelong dream. It 
had been conceived in idleness, and of leisure it 
was the fruit. But he had lived with it night and 
day for nearly three years, until he had fallen 
into the habit of thinking of little else. He had 
acquired that lamentable custom of looking on 
men and things from one point of view only — 
taking interest or feeling indifference in both only 
as possible factors. But he was unconscious of 
it all. Like most eloquent men he was ignorant 
of the distance that he might carry others by his 
words, and remain unmoved himself. He had 
carried Claud Tyars, who in turn had dragged 
him after, not by eloquence, but by the silent 
force of an absorbed will. 

When Easton woke up on the eleventh morn- 
ing of March he was conscious of a certain un- 
steadiness of purpose in minor matters. He 
failed to dress himself with the quick complete- 
ness which usually characterized his toilet. He 
meditated over his ablutions and dawdled with 
his razor. His hand was not only slow, but dis- 
tinctly shaky, and he came very near to blood- 
shed. He stepped to the window and contem- 


2}2 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


plated the heavens of a pearly green — such as 
goes by the name of blue sky in London — and 
this was a man who never displayed the slightest 
interest in barometrical matters. 

This day, the eleventh of March, was fixed for 
the sailing of the Argo exploring vessel, and 
Easton’s chief thought on the subject was a vague 
wonder as to what he would do with himself 
after she had gone. This little man rather prided 
himself upon the possession of a hard and im- 
pregnable nineteenth-century heart. He took a 
certain small pleasure in the reflection that he 
was as nearly independent as it is possible for 
any human being to be. Although he was nat- 
urally of a gregarious and sociable habit, he held 
in reserve the thought that the practice of socia- 
bility was with him merely a matter of expe- 
diency, and not of necessity as it is with some. 
He could drop all his acquaintances at a moment’s 
notice and never feel the loss. In fact he had of 
late cherished the idea of going to San Francisco 
to await the arrival of the Argo. He at all events 
was sanguine of success. 

And yet he was distinctly disturbed this morn- 
ing of the eleventh of March — disturbed, that is 
to say, for a man devoid of human tie or sym- 
pathy. It is possible that he was surprised at 
himself, and perhaps annoyed, for he whistled 
persistently and somewhat aggressively while he 
dressed. 

The Argo was to pass out of the tidal basin 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 


233 


into the river at one o’clock, and at half-past 
twelve Easton drove up to the dock-gates. He 
brought with him the last items of the ship’s 
outfit in the shape of a pile of newspapers, and 
a bunch of hothouse roses for the cabin-table, for 
there was to be a luncheon-party on board while 
steaming down the river. 

He found Admiral Grace strolling about the 
deck with Tyars, conversing in quite a friendly 
way, and endeavouring honestly to suppress his 
contempt for seamanship of so young a growth 
as that of his companion. The ladies were be- 
low, inspecting the ship under Oswin’s guid- 
ance. 

The little vessel lay snugly under the high stone 
quay, and presented the appearance of some 
quaint, old-fashioned little man-of-war, so spot- 
less were her decks, so mathematically correct 
the coiling of every rope, so bright her brass- 
work. One could have guessed that her first 
officer had served under the white ensign. 

A few idlers stood on the quay with that peace- 
ful sense of contemplation which comes to men 
who pass their lives near water, and exchanged 
gruff monosyllables of approval at long and un- 
certain intervals; varying the same with an inter- 
change of quids, and sociable expectoration. 

Easton joined the two sailors after having 
dropped the roses and newspapers through the 
open cabin-skylight, and his presence was some- 
what of a relief to both. 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


234 


“She is,” he said, addressing himself to the 
admiral with transatlantic courtesy, “a strange 
mixture of the man-of-war and the yacht — do 
you not find it so, sir ? ” 

“She is,” answered the old gentleman, guard- 
edly, “one of the most complete vessels I have 
ever boarded — though her outward appearance is 
of course against her.” 

“One can detect,” continued the American, 
looking round with a musing eye, “the influence 
of a naval officer.” 

The old gentleman softened visibly. He had 
been guilty of allowing it to be understood by 
several of his friends that his son Oswin was 
virtually in command of this vessel, while Claud 
Tyars was merely the leader of the expedition. 

“Even to a landlubber like myself,” said 
Easton glibly, “that influence is apparent.” 

At this moment the ladies appeared, escorted 
by Oswin Grace — Miss Winter first, with a 
searching little smile in her eyes. Easton saw 
that she was very much on the alert. 

“I feel quite at home,” she said to him, look- 
ing round her, “although there are so many 
changes.” 

“So do I; the more so because the changes 
have been made under my own directions.” 

They walked aft, leaving the rest of the party 
standing together. As they walked Oswin 
Grace watched them with a singular light in his 
clear gray eyes, singular because gray eyes rarely 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 


235 


glisten, they only darken at times. Miss Winter 
and her companion, in silence, watched the pier- 
head hand cast off the last hawser — the last link 
between the y4rgo and terra-firma. It happened 
that the rest of the party were doing the same in 
a mechanically interested way. 

“Does she seem to you,” asked Easton, sud- 
denly, “ like an unfortunate ship ?” 

The Gravesend pilot who was standing near to 
them shouted some instructions to the master of 
the tug in such stentorian tones that Miss Winter 
was compelled to wait a few moments until he 
had finished his observations. 

As she answered, the paddles of the tug re- 
volved with a splash; the tow-rope seethed out 
of the water, and the Argo moved perceptibly. 

“No,” she answered, “there is a reassuring 
air of — of something stronger than savoir-faire 
about the ship which 1 like.” 

Savoir-faire f he suggested. 

“Yes,” she answered, with a comprehensive 
little nod; and they stood watching the tactics of 
the ship’s crew and the dock-hands without un- 
derstanding very much. 

Oswin Grace had gone forward onto the dimin- 
utive old-fashioned forecastle. Claud Tyars stood 
beside the pilot, while the whaling-captain was 
not far off. There was singularly little shouting. 
Tyars and Grace never opened their lips. Once 
Tyars made a little movement with his hand 
which was rotatory in its tendency. Grace an- 


2^6 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

swered with a nod, and spoke quietly to a man 
beside him, who immediately set a small steam- 
winch to work. For some moments there was 
no sound except the convulsive grunts of the 
winch, and these were finally arrested by a mo- 
tion of Tyars’ hand. 

Presently the vessel glided smoothly between 
the slimy gates out into the open river. The 
tow-line was cast off, and the Argo's engines 
started. The vessel swung slowly round on the 
greasy waters, pointing her blunt stubborn prow 
down the misty river. She settled to her work 
with a docile readiness, like a farmer’s mare on 
the outward road. 

“This is a new experience for you,” said 
Easton, with the faint American tinge which 
came to his tongue in unguarded moments. 

“Yes,” Miss Winter answered, “I did not 
want to come.” 

“Ah!” — he looked up aloft where a boy was 
at work on a tiny yard-arm. She did not how- 
ever continue, so he encouraged her. “Why 
did you not want to come.?” 

“ I knew we should be horribly in the way. I 
am always conscious of being in the way on a 
ship that is not securely tied down all round — 
moored, I mean.” 

“ I do not detect any signs of annoyance on 
the part of the — executive.” 

“No,” admitted Miss Winter. “One would 
say that it had all been carefully rehearsed.” 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 


237 

‘‘Then what is the true reason ?” he inquired, 
coolly — almost too coolly for a man of his tem- 
perament. 

“I do not know. I am nervous. I dislike 
the dramatic . . .” 

“The unrehearsed ?” he suggested. 

She gave a little laugh and turned away to look 
at a brown-sailed barge which was scudding 
across the river astern of them. 

“Yes, the unrehearsed.” 

“But,” he said, “there is no drama. We are 
a light-comedy company. We make little jokes 
and laugh at them enthusiastically. I surmise, at 
least, that we shall do so.” 

“I came on board,” said Miss Winter, gravely, 
“with a broad smile which I expected to last me 
all day, but it appears to have faded.” 

He looked at her critically in his peculiar 
twinkling way, not untinged however with con- 
cern. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “it has. You must 
polish it up for luncheon. I intend to be in- 
tensely funny, and 1 guess you will have to 
laugh.” 

“I suppose Mr. Tyars will be of no assist- 
ance.” 

“Not of the very smallest. He is not good at 
that sort of thing — deep people, I take it, never 
are; it is only shallow water that sparkles in a 
breeze.” 

“I am still of opinion that it is a pity we 


238 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

came,’* said the lady, making a little movement 
to join the other group. Perhaps she was con- 
scious of Oswin’s occasional glances in her direc- 
tion, but if she was there was nothing in her 
manner to betray it. 

“I always was of that opinion,” admitted the 
American, following her, *‘but I could not pre- 
vent it.” 

Then they joined Admiral Grace and Helen. 
Presently, and before any conversation had 
passed, Tyars and Oswin came up together. 
Helen was standing slightly apart, and the inter- 
est which she was still showing in everything, 
was not the strangeness of a landswoman to all 
things maritime; it was a newborn shyness 
which she could not have defined herself — a sud- 
den fear of betraying too great an interest in any 
one man, or the handiwork of any one man. 

Tyars approached her, and stood by her side 
with that grave attention which a preoccupied 
man accords to those women who command his 
respect. Then suddenly, in his abrupt way, he 
spoke. 

“You will never see this ship again,” he said. 

She made a little movement with her head and 
throat, as if a sudden chill had caused her to 
shiver. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We are going to sell her out there — at San 
Francisco.” 

“Ah — yes,” she murmured with evident relief. 


THE ELEVENTH OF MARCH 


239 


The effort to talk of commonplace matters in 
a commonplace way was a trifle en evidence on 
both sides. 

“Do you admire the ship he asked, looking 
steadily at her as one looks at one’s partner when 
the game hangs on a balance. “What is your 
opinion of her ?” 

The girl made an effort. 

“Oh,” she replied with a smile, “of course I 
know nothing about it; but my first impression 
was surprise at her diminutiveness. She still 
seems to me absurdly small. I am woefully ig- 
norant on nautical matters, and size appeals to 
me as safety.” 

“In this case size has little to do with safety. 
In fact, the smaller we are the stronger we shall 
be as long as we can carry all we wish. We 
have sent on our coal, you know, by another 
steamer.” 

“To wait for you .?” 

“To wait,” he answered slowly. “ To wait.” 
Then he broke off suddenly as if checking him- 
self; and they stood in silence watching two 
boats approach from the Dock Pier, one a low, 
green-painted wherry for the pilot, the other a 
larger boat with stained and faded red cushions. 
The scene — the torpid yellow river, the sordid 
town and low riverside warehouses — could scarce 
have been exceeded for pure unvarnished dismal- 
ness. 

Already the steps were being lowered. In a 


240 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


few moments the larger boat swung alongside, 
held by a rope made fast in the forecastle of the 
Argo. A general move was made toward the 
rail. Tyars passed out on to the gangway, where 
he stood waiting to hand the ladies into the boat. 
Helen was near to her brother; she turned to 
him and kissed him in silence. Then she went 
to the gangway. There was a little pause, and 
for a moment Helen and Tyars were left alone at 
the foot of the brass-bound steps. 

“Good-bye," said Tyars. 

There was a slight prolongation of the last syl- 
lable as if he had something else to say ; but he 
never said it, although she gave him time. 

“ Good-bye," she answered at length, and she 
too seemed to have something to add which was 
never added. 

Then she stepped lightly into the boat and took 
her place on the faded red cushions. 

The Argo went to sea that night. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A HORRIBLE TASK 

There are many people who go through life 
without ever knowing what it is to fight a gale 
of wind. Dwellers in cities know indeed that 
the wild winds blow when they hear the hum of 
strained wires overhead, when the dust rises in 
whirls at every street corner, when the sanitary 
employes have difficulty in capturing small truant 
paper-bags that refuse to recognize their cart or 
power, and when it is really inconvenient to wear 
high hats and light-minded skirts. 

Those who live at the edge of the sea will 
never admit that they know little about a gale of 
wind, when at equinoctial periods their windows 
require cleaning every day, when face and hair 
are sticky with salt rime, and there is a pleasant 
sharpness of taste on the lips. Their gale is a 
matter of staying indoors, of avoiding the sea- 
wall, and carefully closing all windows. The 
sea is yellow and disturbed; far away it is of a 
peculiar light green, like dead pea-pods, and from 
its bosom there arises a thin white veil of spray, 
and there is no perspective. Sky and water meet 
in a gray uncertainty a short way beyond the 
pier-head. Occasionally a dripping coaster, some 
241 


242 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


close-reefed brig mayhap, or a tiny schooner 
moves across the near horizon, making better 
weather of it than one would think. 

Sailors of course have the monopoly of wind 
and weather. They alone are competent to judge 
whether it be a whole gale or half, or a mere cap- 
ful of wind. It is their trade and calling to tussle 
with the elements. 

All winds are cruel, but killing is not their mis- 
sion. There is, however, a breath of heaven of 
which the sole message is death. It is a wind 
with no fine-sounding name, for it belongs to 
the North, where men endure things and have 
no thought of naming them. It blows for six 
months of the year, with here and there a breath- 
ing space wherein to gather fresh impetuosity. 
It veers from south-southwest to northwest-by- 
north, and it is born upon the gray ice-fields 
round the pole. For many hundred miles it raves 
across the frozen ocean, gathering deathly cold- 
ness at every league. On its shoulders it carries 
tons of snow, and then striking land it rages and 
tears, howls, moans, and screams across North- 
ern Europe into far-frozen Asia. In passing it 
clothes all Russia in white and still has plenty to 
spare for bleak Siberia, Northern China, and ja- 
pan. It is a wind which must depopulate any 
land it passes over. As a matter of fact this is 
almost the case, although a few northern races 
manage to live on in such numbers as to save ex- 
termination, and that is all. More than a third 


A HORRIBLE TASK 


243 


of them are partially or wholly blind. Their ex- 
istence is a constant and unequal struggle against 
this same wind and its pitiless auxiliaries — snow 
and frost. The earth yields no increase here. A 
little sparse vegetation, sufficient only to nourish 
miserable reindeer and a few horses; a scatter- 
ing of pine-trees, and that is all. Although no 
sanctifying Spirit can be said to walk upon the 
waters, the sea alone sustains life, for men, dogs, 
and reindeer eat fish, not dried but frozen, when 
they can get it. 

It was across this country, and in face of this 
wind, that a party of men and women made their 
way in the late summer five years ago. By late 
summer one means the first fortnight in July in 
these high latitudes. These travellers were 
twenty-one in number, sixteen men and five 
women. One woman carried a baby — a gaol- 
bird — born in prison — unbaptized. It did not 
count, not even as half a person, to any one ex- 
cept its mother. Men and women were dressed 
alike in good fur clothing, baggy trousers tucked 
into felt boots, long blouse-like fur coats, and 
caps with ear-flaps tied down. Boots, trousers, 
coats, and even caps bore signs of damage by 
water. When Northern Siberia is not frozen up 
it is in a state of flood, and travelling, except by 
water, is almost impossible. These people had 
come many miles by this comparatively easy 
method at imminent risk, for they had travelled 
north on the bosom of the flood. Since then 


244 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


they had literally burnt their vessels in order to 
cut off pursuit. 

The men dragged light sledges, three to a 
sledge, and four resting. The women carried 
various more precious burdens, delicate instru- 
ments such as compasses and aneroids. Beneath 
the fur caps throbbed some singular brains, from 
under the draggled brims looked out some 
strange faces. There was a doctor among them, 
two army officers, a judge, and others who had 
not been allowed time to become anything, for 
they were exiled while students. 

The whole party pressed forward in silence 
with tight-locked lips and half-closed eyes, for 
the rushing wind carried a fine blinding snow 
before it. Only one person spoke at times. It 
was the woman who carried the baby, and she 
interlarded her inconsequent remark's with 
snatches of song and bursts of peculiar cackling 
laughter. Suddenly she sat down on a boulder. • 

“ I will sit here," she said, “ in the warm sun." 

The whole party stopped, and one of the 
women answered — 

“Come, Anna," she said, “we cannot wait 
here." Still speaking she took her arm and urged 
her to rise. 

“But," protested she who had been addressed 
as Anna, “ where is the picnic to be ?” 

“The picnic, Anna Pavloska," said a small, 
squarely-built man, coming forward and speak- 
ing in a wonderfully deep and harmonious tone 


A HORRIBLE TASK 


245 

of voice, “is to be held farther on. You must 
come at once.” 

“ I think,” she replied, gently, “that I will 
wait here for my husband. I expect him home 
from the office. He will bring the newspaper.” 

They were all grouped round the woman now 
except one man, and he stood apart with his 
back turned toward them. He had been drag- 
ging the foremost sledge, and the broad band of 
the trace was still across his shoulders. He had 
been leading the way, and seemed in some subtle 
manner to be recognized as chief and pioneer. 

Again the woman who had first spoken per- 
suaded; again the broad-shouldered man spoke 
in his commanding gentleness. It was, however, 
of no avail. Then after a few moments of pain- 
ful hesitation, he left the group and went to 
where the leader stood alone. 

“ Pavloski,” he said. 

“Yes, doctor.” He never turned his head, but 
stood, rigid and stern, looking straight before 
him, scowling with eyes from which the horror 
would now never fade, into the gray hopeless 
distance. No marble statue could reproduce the 
strong cold despair that breathed in every limb 
and feature. 

“Something,” said the doctor, “must be done. 
We are behind our time already.” 

“ I suppose it is my duty to stay with you ? ” 
said Pavloski; “I cannot leave the party ? I can- 
not stay behind?” 


246 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

The little man made no answer. His silence 
was more eloquent than any words could have 
been. A dramatic painter could scarcely have 
found a sadder picture than these two friends 
who dared not to meet each other’s eyes. And 
yet, in a moment, it was rendered infinitely sad- 
der by the advent of a third person. 

Swathed as she was in furs, it was difficult to 
distinguish that this was a woman at all, and yet 
to a close observer her movements, the manner 
in which she set her feet upon the ground, the 
suggestion of graceful curves in limb and form, 
betrayed that she was indeed a young girl. Her 
face confirmed it — gay blue eyes and a rosebud 
mouth, round cheeks delicately tinted despite the 
wild wind, and little wisps of golden hair strag- 
gling out beneath the ear-flaps, and gleaming 
against the dusky face. 

'‘I,” said this little woman, ‘‘will stay with 
her. Sergius, I will try and take her back. We 
will give ourselves up. It does not matter. Now 
that Hans is dead I have nothing to live for. I 
have no husband.” 

Poor little maiden, she had never had a hus- 
band; the fatherly Russian Government had seen 
to that! But she chose to call Hans Onetcheff 
her husband. This same Onetcheff had been ad- 
ministratively exiled by mistake, and being deli- 
cate had died, at the mines, of prison consump- 
tion. 

The little doctor winced. He was not a Nihi- 


A HORRIBLE TASK 


247 


list at all, and never had been; but in personal 
appearance he had resembled one. There was 
something horribly real in the words that came 
from the girl’s lips. She shouted them, for the 
wind was so furious as to render conversation 
impossible; and in order to make herself heard, 
she raised her round cherub-like face with an odd 
childishness of manner. Sergius Pavloski shook 
his head and moved a step or two toward the 
group half hidden by a fine driving snow. 

“No,” he answered. “ We arranged it before 
leaving London. There is only one thing to be 
done.” 

The doctor and the girl exchanged a look of 
horror, and hesitated to follow him. 

“It was agreed,” he continued, mechanically, 
“that the lives of all were never to be endan- 
gered for the sake of one. Tyars said that.” 

Slowly the two followed him. As they ap- 
proached the group some of these stepped si- 
lently back, some walked away a few paces and 
stood apart with averted faces. 

“Can you tell me,” said the woman, looking 
up suddenly, and leaving the baby’s face and 
throat fully exposed to the cruel wind, “ whether 
I can find a lodging near here ? ” 

She addressed Pavloski, who was standing in 
front of her. He made no answer, but presently 
turned away with a convulsive movement of lips 
and throat, as if he were swallowing something 
with an effort. Then he raised his vaice, and 


248 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


addressing his companions generally, he said 
with the assurance of a man placed in a position 
to exact obedience — 

“Will you all go on? Keep the same direc- 
tion, north-by-west according to the compass. 
I shall catch you up before evening.” 

He stood quite still, like a man hewn out of 
stone — upright, emotionless, and quite deter- 
mined — awaiting the fulfilment of his com- 
mands. All around him his companions waited. 
It almost seem'ed as if they expected the Al- 
mighty to interfere. Even to those who have 
tasted the bitterest cup that life has ever brewed, 
this seemed too cruel to be true — too horrid! 
And the wind blew all around them, tearing, rag- 
ing on. Some of them staggered a little, but 
none made a movement to obey the command of 
their leader; each seemed to dread setting an ex- 
ample to the others. 

At last one man had the courage to do it. It 
was he who had spoken to Pavloski, the man 
whom they called doctor. He went toward one 
of the sledges and proceeded to disentangle the 
traces thrown carelessly down when a halt had 
been called. The men stepped silently forward 
and drew the cords across their shoulders. 

The women moved away first, stepping softly 
on the silent snow, and like phantoms vanishing 
in the mist and windy turmoil. The men fol- 
lowed, dragging their noiseless sledges. The 
doctor stayed behind for a moment. When the 


A HORRIBLE TASK 


249 


others were out of earshot he went toward 
Pavloski and laid his mittened hand upon his 
arm. 

“Sergius,” he said with painful hesitation, 
“let me do it — I am a doctor — it will be easier.” 

Pavloski turned and looked at the speaker in a 
stupid, bewildered way, as if the language used 
were unknown to him. Then he smiled sud- 
denly in a sickening way; it was like a cynical 
smile upon the face of the dead. 

“Go!” he said, pointing to windward, where 
their companions had disappeared. “Go with 
them. Let each one of us do his duty. It will 
be a consolation whatever the end may be.” 

The doctor was bound in honour to obey this 
man in all and through all. He obeyed now, 
and left Sergius Pavloski alone with his mad wife 
and his helpless babe. As he moved away he 
heard the woman prattling of the sun, and the 
birds, and the flowers. 

He turned his face resolutely northward and 
pressed forward into the icy wind; but a muf- 
fled gurgling shriek broke down his strong reso- 
lution. Without stopping, he glanced back over 
his shoulder with a gasp of horror. Sergius 
Pavloski was kneeling with his back to the 
north; but he was not kneeling on the snow, 
for the doctor saw two fur-clad arms waving 
convulsively, and between the soles of Pavloski’s 
great snow-boots he caught sight of two other 
feet drawn up in agony. 


250 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


“Good God/' exclaimed the man aloud, “for- 
give him! ” 

And with bloodshot eyes and haggard lips he 
stumbled on, not heeding where he set his feet. 
He fell, and rose again, scarce knowing what he 
did. Despite the freezing wind, the perspiration 
ran down his face, blinding him. It froze, and 
hung in little icicles on his mustache and beard. 

“Good God,” he mumbled again, “forgive 
him!” 

And in the agony of his mind his brain lost all 
power of concentration. His lips continued to 
frame those four words over and over and over 
again, until they became bereft of all meaning, 
and lapsed into a mere rhythmic refrain, keeping 
time with the swing of his sturdy legs. 


CHAPTER XXV 


ON THE NEVA 

Easton disappeared from London soon after 
the departure of the Argo. He was going home 
to America, he said. But he came back again to 
Europe, and in course of time he turned to- 
ward Russia again. One evening he arrived 
quietly at St. Petersburg. He arrived by train 
from Libau, and took a droschky to the Hotel de 
France for which he paid seventy kopecks. His 
passport was in perfect order, although smeared 
most lamentably by the clerk of the Russian con- 
sulate who vised it in London. This small 
American was an experienced and clever trav- 
eller, as most of his countrymen are, and was as 
much at home in St. Petersburg as he might have 
been in Boston or London. Moreover, he had 
been in St. Petersburg and in the Hotel de France 
before. His nationality was also in those days 
fraught with a certain weight of favourable prej- 
udice, for that was three years ago, before the 
Siberian question had attracted transalantic at- 
tention. 

Matthew Mark Easton therefore made himself 
quite at home in the Hotel de France, and dined 
very comfortably at the table ' d' hole, of which 
certain small eccentricities failed to surprise him. 

251 


252 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


He lighted his interprandial cigarette at the candle 
placed between each two guests for the purpose, 
and fell very naturally into Slavonic habits; but it 
is perhaps worth noticing that he somewhat 
carefully concealed his knowledge of the Russian 
language. This alone was proof of his intimacy 
with the internal economy of the White Empire; 
for old travellers there know that it is better to 
reserve one’s Russian for a necessity, even if he 
have no other purpose than enjoyment in his 
wanderings. After dinner he retired to his room, 
not however without being forced to ward off 
several singularly leading questions put to him by 
a bland landlord. These questions were obvi- 
ously of one and the same purpose; namely, to 
discover the reason of Easton’s presence in Rus- 
sia. Had he been there before ? Did he admire 
the town? Was not the Newski Prospect un- 
rivalled ? Where was he going after he quitted 
the Northern capital ? To all of these Matthew 
Mark Easton replied vaguely and almost densely, 
with a singularly strong American accent. He 
was not surprised to be awakened the next 
morning by the wildest carillon that ever pealed 
from cathedral spire, for he had heard the re- 
markable performance of St. Michael’s bells be- 
fore. 

After breakfast he wandered forth, guide-book 
in hand, having refused the services of a polyglot 
individual who professed to be the brother-in- 
law of the hall-porter. The landlord himself 


ON THE NEVA 


253 


directed Easton to the Newski Prospect, which 
however was not considered interesting until the 
afternoon. Nevertheless he went that way, and 
finally found himself on the English quay. He 
crossed the Neva, still in the same tourist’s gait, 
and lost himself among the smaller commercial 
streets of the Vasili Ostroff. Presently by the 
merest accident he found himself opposite a 
small warehouse bearing the name “ L. Ogroff” 
in painted letters above the blind windows of 
what had once been a shop. He pushed open 
the curtained door, and addressing himself to a 
pleasant-looking girl who was seated at a counter 
adding up the columns of a ledger, he mentioned 
the name ‘‘ Loris Ogroff.” 

“ Yes,” answered the girl in perfect English, 
“ he is in. Who are you ” 

“ Matthew Mark Easton.” 

“Ah! Come in.” 

She pointed to a little swing-door in the 
counter, and did not offer to open it as a born 
and bred servitor would have done. Then she 
led the way into an inner room which was lined 
with shelves containing long wooden boxes like 
miniature coffins. There were upon the table 
some rolls of common cloth. 

“Mr. Ogroff is apparently a tailor,” hazarded 
Easton in a conversational way, seeing that the 
girl was pretty and pleasant-looking. 

“Yes,” she answered, with a short laugh; “a 
very cheap one.” 


254 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


She had not relinquished her hold of the door- 
handle, and stood in a graceful attitude looking 
at him with clear blue eyes, in which a great 
interest and a slight amusement were provokingly 
mingled. She evidently knew all about him, and 
her attitude physical and mental was notably de- 
void of that shyness or embarrassment which is 
considered correct and polite between young per- 
sons of opposite sexes who meet without intro- 
duction. 

“He is upstairs in the cutting-out room,” she 
continued, with a twinkle in her childish eyes. 
“ I shall tell him.” 

Easton stood looking at the curtained door after 
she had closed it. Then he picked up a piece of 
rough cloth and examined its texture critically. 

“I am half inclined,” he reflected aloud, “to 
become a Nihilist. There are alleviations even in 
the lot of a tailor’s assistant of the establishment 
Ogroff.” 

In a few moments the door opened again, and a 
stout man entered with a bow. He shook hands 
without speaking, and pointed to a chair. Round 
his thick neck he wore a yellow tape-measure 
with the two ends hanging down in front. Be- 
fore speaking he took up some rolls of cloth that 
stood in the corner, and unfolding a portion of 
each he ranged them upon the table in front of 
Easton. 

We last saw this man in Easton’s rooms in 
London. His name was not mentioned then be- 


ON THE NEVA 


255 


cause there was not much in a name for him. It 
was not Ogrofif then. He was not minutely de- 
scribed, because a written description is not 
always of great value. For instance, he was in 
London a dark grizzled man with a beard — in this 
shop in the Vasili Ostroff, St. Petersburg, he was 
a fair, hairless man. 

“ Well ?” he said asthmatically at length. 

“Not a word . . .!” replied Easton; “ and 
you ?” 

The man shrugged his heavy shoulders. 

“Not a word. I have written to you all that I 
heard. I wrote on the fifth of May; have you 
destroyed the letter ? ” 

“Yes— burnt it.” 

“ Well! ” ejaculated the Russian, misusing the 
word. “ I heard,” he continued, — “ never mind 
how — that they all got away, in good health, at 
the proper time — that is, in the early summer of 
the year before last. They were followed, but 
they destroyed all the horses and boats as they 
went, and the pursuit was necessarily given 
up.” 

“Since that,'' inquired Easton, “not a word ?” 

“Not a word.” 

“There has been no semi-olficial account of 
the matter in the newspapers ?” 

“No; it has been hushed up. The official re- 
port is (as far as I can learn) that certain exiles 
and prisoners escaped; that they were pursued 
by Cossacks, and that the chase was only given 


2^6 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

up when their death by starvation was a moral 
certainty." 

“And," said Easton, “are they struck out of 
the list.?" 

“ Yes; they are struck out." 

The fat man spoke in a gasping way, and his 
breathing was attended by a peculiar hollow 
sound. It was noticeable that he never paused to 
think before replying to any question, and never 
referred to notebook or written memorandum. 
All his information was on the surface ready for 
use, and all his memoranda were mental. One 
cannot search in a man’s mind for incriminating 
evidence. He who at present passed under the 
name of Loris OgrofT was known among his col- 
leagues as an eminently “safe" man. 

“I am going to look for them," announced 
Easton, after a pause. 

The Russian raised his flaxen eyebrows. 

“Ah! I understood that you were condemned 
— by the doctors." 

“No, not condemned; they merely said, ‘If 
you go it will kill you.’ ’’ 

“And still,” said the Russian, calmly, “you 
go.” 

“Some one must," answered Easton with 
equal coolness. “You cannot — you are too 
fat! ’’ 

“No; I do not travel now as I used. Besides, 
I have other work. My hands are full, as well 
as my waistcoat." 


ON THE NEVA 


257 


“I am going by land,” continued the Ameri- 
can. “ I leave Petersburg to-morrow morning.” 

Ogroff rose from his chair. 

“You must go now,” he said. “You have 
been here long enough; we are watched, you 
know. Here in Petersburg we all watch each 
other. I will send you a fur-lined travelling 
cloak to-night to your hotel — the Hotel de France, 
I suppose.^” 

“ Yes ; how do you know ? ” 

“ I get a copy of each day’s passport-returns 
from a friend of mine in the police.” 

“ But,” protested Easton, “ I do not want a fur 
cloak.” 

“Never matter; it will be useful — you can 
give it away. It is to allay suspicion.” 

“ All right; send it.” 

The Russian held out a fat white hand. 

“Good-bye, you brave American,” he said. 

“ G’bye! ” returned Easton with a laugh. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THEY TRIED IT 

Well, at all events we have tried itl” Ordi- 
nary words enough in all sooth, and words we 
must all make use of sooner or later. But all 
words are ordinary, and it is only the manner of 
speaking them, the circumstances in which they 
are spoken, and the person to hear, that lend a 
human interest to the tritest commonplaces. 

These words were spoken by the mere remnant 
of a man to a solitary companion while both 
looked out — peered through the twilight — on 
death. He who spoke crouched in a singular 
way on the hard snow, supporting himself on 
one fur-clad arm. He could not stand, for he 
had but one leg. The other had been cut off just 
above the knee— a recent amputation undoubt- 
edly, for the empty trouser-leg, rudely tied with 
rope, was stained a deep suggestive colour. His 
face was a horrid sight to look upon, for here 
and there in the pasty yellow flesh were deep 
indentations of half-healed sores, the result of 
frost-bite. One eye was quite closed by a swell- 
ing which deformed the features and drew them 
all up. He spoke in a mumbling way, as if his 
tongue were swollen or diseased, and the language 
was the most dramatic of all tongues — Russian. 

258 


THEY TRIED IT 


259 


His companion, a short, thick-set man, stood 
beside him; but he stood weakly, and the terri- 
bly sunken lines of his cheeks told a story only 
slightly less horrible than that depicted by the face 
and form of the cripple. Both faces alike bore 
that strange dry look which tells unerringly of 
starvation. All who were in Southern India at 
the time of the Madras famine know that look, 
and those who have never seen it before divine 
its meaning at once. It is unmistakable, like an 
earthquake. 

Behind these two men lay a vast snow-clad 
country, rolling away in rounded gray curves 
into fathomless mist. On their left was a slight 
declivity, terminated by a broad flat valley, ex- 
tending beyond sight in a due southerly direction. 
This was the river Yana. Within a few yards of 
the two men, at their backs, stood a rude, ill- 
shapen hut, built clumsily and ignorantly of 
snow. Its low doorway faced the north, and 
amidst the gloom of its interior there were dis- 
cernible a number of heaps, apparently formed of 
old and tattered fur clothing. These were dead 
men ; the women of Sergius Pavloski’s party had 
not lived to see the Arctic Ocean. Amidst the 
dead the living had crouched and slept that dull, 
dreamless sleep that comes to human beings in 
extremely cold climates. In front of the two 
men extended that which had been their bourne, 
their hope, their one desire — the Arctic Ocean. 
There was no water visible, but as far as the eye 


26 o 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


could penetrate a heaving, surging field of pack- 
ice. Low down in the far northern sky there 
hovered a yellow shimmer — the ice-blink. 

It was the second of September, and in all 
probability the ice was gathering for the winter. 
Already it extended along the deserted shore, in 
a belt twenty miles deep, without a lead. And 
from the continuous sounds of groaning and 
grinding it was certain that more was pressing 
in, adding confusion to the frozen chaos. The 
man who stood gave a short heartrending laugh 
as he looked out over the frozen sea. 

“ Yes,” he said, “we have tried it.” 

There was a pause, and then the cripple — 
Sergius Pavloski — spoke again. 

“ Of course,” he said, almost unintelligibly, 
“we have failed; but still our failure may teach 
others, and we have kept it secret. Those who 
want to know will never know. They will al- 
ways be in uncertainty as to whether we have 
escaped and are living hidden in America, in 
Europe, perhaps in Russia. We shall be more 
terrible, doctor, dead than alive.” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ I, at all events, shall be, for you say that I 
could not live a week in a warm climate. This 
leg of mine is less painful to-day; perhaps it is 
healing.” 

“No, Pavloski, I have told you a dozen times 
it is not healed, it is only frozen. It can never 
heal. The moment it thaws you will die.” 


THEY TRIED IT 


261 

A sickly smile passed across his unsightly fea- 
tures, and there was silence for a time — the 
deathly expectant silence of the far North. 
They were both looking out across the ice. It 
was a habit they had acquired during the last two 
months. At length Pavloski raised his mittened 
hand and extended it outward true north, like 
the needle of a compass. 

“I wonder,” he mumbled, “if Tyars is out 
there.” 

The doctor shrugged his broad shoulders. 

“I wonder,” he said, “why you entrusted this 
to an Englishman.” 

It was an old subject thoroughly thrashed out; 
an old point of dissension. When men see death 
staring them in the face they are not conversa- 
tional on general topics; they only discuss their 
chances of life. 

“ If I had had the whole world to choose from 
I should not have selected another man,” said 
Pavloski ; “but there was no choice in the matter.” 

“ I suppose,” said the doctor, with an ill-con- 
cealed sneer, “ that he has turned back.” 

“I will swear by St. Paul that he has not done 
that!” 

The words were not pleasant to hear from lips 
already stiffening in anticipation of death. 

“Then where is he?” 

“Dead!” was the answer. V‘If Claud Tyars 
had been alive he would have come. He is not 
here, therefore he is dead! — Ough!” 


262 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


He stopped and fell back fainting with pain. 
In his excitement he had moved, and had allowed 
some of his weight to rest upon the raw stump 
of his leg. In a second the doctor was kneeling 
on the snow beside him, raising his head, touch- 
ing his lips with snow. It was a poor restora- 
tive, but there was nothing else at hand. One 
cannot offer to a dying man even the tenderest 
piece of an old sealskin mitten. 

Without waiting for consciousness to return 
he attempted to lift the cripple, intending to 
carry him within the little snow-hut, but the 
movement brought back Pavloski’s failing senses, 
and he shook his head in token that he wished 
to be left where he lay. 

“ No,” he said, after gasping twice for breath; 

I would rather die out here.” 

The doctor’s bare hand crept within the tat- 
tered sleeve toward the pulse. He said nothing, 
There was nothing to say. 

“I do not want,” continued Pavloski, bro- 
kenly, “to see their— faces. I— brought them 
here. — It is my fault.” 

He lay for some moments with his lips apart, 
his uninjured eye half closed, then he spoke 
again. 

“I suppose — the good God — will knowhow 
to revenge all this.— If they, the Romanoffs— the 
Czar — had twenty lives, and we could take — 
them all— we might pay — the debt;— but they 
have — only one life — to take, that would be too 


THEY TRIED IT 263 

short — a punishment. God will know how to 
do it — will He not, doctor?” 

“Yes,” said the deep voice of the doctor, 
“ God will know how to do it.” 

. “ Pray,” said the dying man, “ pray to Him to 
do it — well! ” 

Then his head fell back and he breathed regu- 
larly and softly. But this was not the end. 
Presently the blackened lips began to move, and 
he spoke in quite a different voice, so different as 
to startle his listener. It was soft and even, as if 
recounting a dream not long dispelled. 

“It is not yet a year ago,” he said. “There 
were seven of us, four Russians, two English- 
men, and an American. Four Russians, two 
Englishmen, and an American — what a strong 
combination! The Russians to go into action on 
land, the Englishmen on the sea, and the sharp- 
witted American to watch and plot and scheme. 
I remember the last time we met was at Easton’s 
house; we eat and drank together. Two of us 
are dead, and I am nearly — dead. Tyars and 
Grace — where can they be ? They are out there, 
doctor, in front of us — to the north. I — I shall 
go and . . . meet them.” 

The lips closed with a sudden snap, and the 
doctor leant eagerly forward. Sergius Pavloski 
was dead. Perhaps his babbled words were 
true. He said that he would go to meet them, 
and it is not for us to maintain that this was the 
mere wandering of a mind harassed by much af- 


264 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


fliction, paralyzed by the cold touch of Death. 
It is not for us to assert that the departing soul is 
never vouchsafed a gleam of light, of that Light 
which is not seen on land or sea, to guide it up- 
ward to its rest. Perhaps indeed he had gone to 
meet them, to find these two Englishmen in 
whom his faith had never wavered. 

Then the survivor rose to his feet. It had be- 
gun to snow gently and in large flakes — a snow 
that would cover the ground to the depth of 
twelve inches in half that number of hours. As 
it fell it gradually covered the dead man, even to 
his face and eyes, which were already cold. 

Presently the doctor moved a little, and turn- 
ing slowly round, scanned the near horizon. He 
could not see the pack-ice now, for the snow 
was blowing in from the north, wreathing and 
curling as it came. The wind had dropped a 
little, and so the ice was still, and its groan was 
heard no more. The silence was terrible — that 
silence that comes between two squalls at sea. 
Suddenly the snow ceased, and only a few feath- 
ery flakes floated aimlessly in the air. The at- 
mosphere cleared and displayed to the man’s dim 
vision a lifeless world of virgin white. Even the 
footsteps of his late companion and himself were 
half obliterated; the body of Sergius Pavloski 
was covered, and presented the appearance of a 
churchyard mound, for the snow had drifted 
heavily at the first rush of the squall. 

Then the lone man moved toward the snow- 


THEY TRIED IT 


265 

hut, and entered it on his hands and knees. He 
took no notice of the dead — one soon gets ac- 
customed to them — but fumbled about among 
the baggage piled up in one corner. 

While he worked he mumbled to himself. 
Probably he was only half conscious of his ac- 
tions, as men are in extreme cold. It is very 
easy to sit in a warm room and reflect that we 
should never lose our heads in a snowstorm; 
that we should never be so weak-minded as to 
give way to that dazed drowsiness which comes 
from snow alone. Fatigues on land or sea have 
their characteristics, but in 'neither case is the 
brain affected as it is by a great fatigue borne on 
snow. Mountaineers know this, and the good 
brothers of St. Bernard; they know that the 
strongest man is forced to use his utmost strength 
of mind to keep serene and calm while battling 
on snow against a snowstorm ; whereas an ordi- 
nary sailor-man, of no great courage, can face a 
gale almost unmoved. 

But this man’s bodily strength seemed to be al- 
most unimpaired. He dragged the heavy sledges 
aside without any great effort. He had been, and 
was still, a man of exceptional strength — broadly 
built upon short legs, with a large square head. 
It was somewhat singular that he should be ap- 
parently far from death while his companions 
had succumbed to cold and starvation; but this 
undoubtedly lay in the fact that he was a doctor. 
His intimate knowledge of the human frame had 


266 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


doubtless enabled him to take a greater care of 
himself than he could force upon his compan- 
ions. He had, no doubt, been strong enough in 
purpose to endure a hunger which his dead com- 
rades had satisfied by illegitimate means. This 
is no place to go into details, for these pages may 
come to the eyes of many who will be no wiser 
and no better for learning aught of death. In- 
deed, it is difficult to imagine that any of us are 
in any way benefited by a study of this subject 
from a fictional point of view. We meet it often 
enough in real life. 

That strange law which we call Chance has 
one singular trick; it almost invariably sets the 
wrong man in the wrong place. This Russian 
doctor was an instance of the perverseness of 
Chance. He was not a Nihilist, though he had 
been mistaken for one, which, as far as he was 
concerned, came to the same thing. He was not 
made of that stuff out of which are fashioned 
lonely adventurers, solitary travellers, or self-suf- 
ficing Stoics. He was merely a garrulous, gre- 
garious little fellow with a decided bodily ten- 
dency to stoutness, which tendency had not been 
fairly treated. He had never lived alone — had 
never thought of doing such a thing. What a 
man to place upon the edge of the frozen Arctic 
Ocean with no human life within a radius of 
three hundred miles, in the month of September! 
But that is precisely the man whom Chance would 
select to place there. Moreover she made that 


THEY TRIED IT 


267 


selection — hence this record. From among those 
iron-hearted, desperate fugitives, she carefully 
chose the wrong man to be last survivor; for 
there is no such thing as the Survival of the 
Fittest, though we write it with the capitalest of 
letters. Chance sees to that. 

And yet in a dull, stupid way he realized the 
responsibilities of his position. He dragged two 
of the sledges out of the hut, and with a hatchet 
broke them up. Then he took the tv/o strongest 
pieces of each — the crossbars — and bound them 
securely together, thus forming a rough pole. 
This he erected on a little mound where the snow 
was thin, building it up with such debris as he 
could lay his hands upon. It stood up gauntly, 
almost the only object within sight that was not 
white. It was a mere pole, the thickness of a 
man’s wrist, and yet it was probably visible ten 
miles off against its gleaming surroundings. 

When this was completed there was nothing 
left for him to do. There was no record to be 
preserved — no record of the sufferings and of the 
great struggle. The earlier acts of the tragedy 
were lost, and no earthly lips left to tell of them. 
After all, what did it matter ? The last act wiped 
them all out. When the game is played there is 
nothing to be gained by the recapitulation of its 
chances. 

The lone man stood back and contemplated 
his rude erection. It was rough, but strong 
enough to last a year or two. Then he looked 


268 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


at the remains of the light American sledges 
which he had just broken up. 

Suddenly an idea came to him. 

'‘It would be good,” he mumbled, “to be 
warm once more . . . just once.” 

And he piled up the wood in a little heap. 
He crawled into the hut and presently returned 
bearing a good-sized tin bottle labelled “ Spiritus.” 
He poured the contents over the wood and struck 
a match. In a moment the blue flames leapt up 
and the wood crackled. He crouched down to 
the leeward side so close that his clothes were 
singed and gave forth a sharp acrid smell. He 
withdrew his mittens and held his bare scarred 
hands right into the flames. 

“Ah,” he muttered in a gurgling voice, “that 
is good! ” 

But it did not last long. The wood was light 
and very dry, and in five minutes there was 
nothing left but a few smouldering ashes. 

The doctor rose to his feet and looked long 
and steadily out to the north over the broken ice. 
It is hard to give up hope, and few men are ever 
forced to do so. Then he looked round him as a 
man looks round a room before starting on a 
long journey to see that he has left nothing un- 
done. He had lived in this spot for more than 
two months, and its bleak surroundings were 
very familiar to him. His eyes lingered over 
each white mound and hillock — not lovingly, for 


THEY TRIED IT 269 

it was horribly dismal, almost too dismal to be 
part of this world at all. 

Strange to say his eyes finished their inspec- 
tion by looking up to heaven. The great snow- 
clouds were rolling south, bearing in their huge 
rounded bosoms the white pall to cover a con- 
tinent for many months to come. But this man 
seemed to be looking beyond the clouds, seeking 
to penetrate the dim ether. He was not looking 
at the sky, but into heaven. At last he gave a 
contemptuous little shrug of the shoulders, full 
of a terrible meaning. The next moment he 
sought for something in the inner pocket of his 
fur tunic. There was a gleam of dull rusted 
metal, and he raised his hand toward his open 
mouth. At the same instant a sharp report 
broke upon that echoless silence, and a little puff 
of white smoke was borne southward on the 
breeze. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THREE YEARS AFTER 

There are some women to whom even Time 
is merciful. It is an undeniable truth that those 
among our gentle companions through this pil- 
grimage who are fair to look upon may surely 
count upon some allowance from men both 
young and old. Charity may cover a multitude 
of sins — perhaps it does; but Beauty undoubtedly 
covers more. Not only have plain women to 
bear with a thousand minute slights from every 
pretty face they meet, but if they be observant 
they will realize soon enough that there is a 
special code of laws tacitly allowed to the own- 
ers of these pretty faces. They have no need to 
be scrupulous; it does not matter much that they 
be honest, so long as they are gracious, and fas- 
cinating, and kind at intervals. The necessity of 
working for their own livelihood is rarely forced 
upon them. Beauty in distress is proverbially 
sure of relief. But there is one enemy upon 
whom all charms are lost, to whose heart red 
lips, soft hands, and pleading eyes cannot reach. 
This enemy is Time. It is not only around dull 
eyes that he scores his mark; he touches rosy 
cheeks and pale alike; he sets his weight upon 
270 


THREE YEARS AFTER 


27 


straight shoulders as on crooked bones. But 
some there are to whom he is kind, and these 
are usually such as fear him not. Some folks 
are said to defy Time, but it is safer to meet him 
with a fearless smile, for he is not to be defied. 
He carries more in his hands than we can tell or 
dare defy. Agnes Winter was not the woman 
to make this mistake, and Time had dealt very 
leniently with her. At the beginning of life, or 
at its end, three years are an important period, 
but in the middle of existence their weight is less 
perceptible. They seemed to have passed very 
lightly over the small phase of existence working 
itself out unheeded by the world in the drawing- 
room where we last saw Agnes Winter, and where 
we now find her again. 

The room was unchanged, and the Agnes 
Winter dwelling therein was the same woman 
except in one very small matter. She had always 
been distinguished by a cheery repose of manner 
which was not without its sense of comfort for 
those around her; by its presence she had ac- 
quired the reputation of being very capable and 
singularly tactful — the sort of woman, in a word, 
whom a clever hostess would be glad to secure 
at her table. This characteristic had given place 
to a certain restlessness — a well-concealed rest- 
lessness; but still it was there. The smile with 
which she now faced that grim antagonist Time 
was not quite so confident as of yore. Her be- 
ing subtly suggested one who, having been 


272 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


burnt, respects the fire. Perhaps this change 
was more noticeable in the lady’s eyes than in her 
person. The same strong, finished grace at- 
tended her movements, but her eyes lacked re- 
pose. They were the eyes of one who has 
waited and waited in vain. There is a good deal 
of waiting to be done here below, and most of it 
is vain. None need search very far afield to find 
such eyes as now looked up nervously toward 
the door at the sound of the large old-fashioned 
bell, pealing in the basement. 

“ Who is that ?” said Agnes Winter to herself. 
“Who can that be ?” 

She rose and set one or two things in order 
about the room, and after glancing at the clock, 
stood motionless with her tired eyes fixed on the 
door, listening intently. The bell was by no 
means a silent member of its fraternity, and there 
was nothing unusual in its peal, although the 
early hour precluded the possibility of visitors. 
Miss Winter had therefore no special reason for 
uneasiness, but people who are waiting have at 
times strange forebodings. While she stood 
there the door was opened, and the maid an- 
nounced — 

“Mr. Easton.” 

Matthew Mark Easton came into the room im- 
mediately afterward. He shook hands rather 
awkwardly, as one sees a man go through the 
ceremony whose fingers are injured. 

“How do you do. Miss Winter?” he said, 


THREE YEARS AFTER 


273 

gravely, managing to spread out that salutation 
into such length that the door was perforce 
closed before he had finished. 

“Well,” she said, in a sharp, unsteady voice, 
ignoring his question; “ what news have you ?” 

As he laid aside his hat he looked round almost 
furtively. 

“I have no news of the ship. Miss Winter,” 
he replied. 

She begged him by a courteous gesture of the 
hand to take a chair, and seated herself beside 
the table where her work and books lay idle. 

“Tell me,” she said, “what you have done.” 

He came forward in obedience to her wish, 
and in doing so emerged from the darker side of 
the room into the full light of the autumn sun. 
In doing this he unconsciously called attention to 
his own personal appearance. The last three 
years had left a twofold mark on him. In face 
he was an older man, for there were a hundred 
minute crow’s-feet round his eyes; and his thin 
cheeks, formerly sallow, now brown and healthy, 
were drawn into minute downward-tending 
lines; added to this was a distinct droop at the 
corners of the mouth which had always been so 
ready to smile. The meaning of it all was star- 
vation, or at the best a lamentable insufficiency of 
nutriment at some past period. In his form and 
carriage there was a noticeable improvement, for 
it is a remarkable thing that the eyes and face 
bear far longer the marks and results of starva- 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


274 

tion than the body that was starved. The 
American was obviously a stronger man than 
when Miss Winter had last seen him ; his chest 
was broader, his step firmer, and his glance 
clearer. 

“ I have,” he said, “ explored every yard of the 
coast from the North Cape to the Yana river.” 

“And why did you stop at the Yana river?” 
asked the lady, with an air of knowing her 
ground. 

“I will tell you afterward,” he said; “when 
Miss Grace is with you — if — if she does not ob- 
ject to my presence.” 

Miss Winter thought for a moment. 

“No,” she answered, without meeting her 
companion’s glance; “she will like to see you, I 
think. I will send a note round to her at once.” 

She drew ' writing materials toward her and 
wrote — “Mr. Easton is here; come at once.” 
She read it aloud, and ringing the bell, despatched 
the note. 

“I presume,” said Easton, slowly, “that the 
admiral is still with us.” 

“Yes, he is alive and well.” 

Easton made no comment. His manner was 
characterized by that singular repose which has 
no rest in it. He looked round him, noting 
little matters with a certain accuracy of observa- 
tion as people do when they stand on the brink 
of a catastrophe. The lightness of touch which 
had previously characterized his social method 


THREE YEARS AFTER 


275 


seemed now to have left him. This was not a 
grave man, but a light-hearted man rendered 
grave by the force of circumstances. The two 
are quite apart. The presence of one in a room 
is conducive to restfulness; the other is a dis- 
turbing element, however quiet his demeanour 
may be. 

Miss Winter in her keener feminine sensibility 
was conscious of this tension, and it affected her, 
urging her to speak at the cost of sense or 
sequence. 

“ Helen,” she said, “is . . . you will find 

her a little changed.” 

He made a convulsive little movement of his 
thin lips, and gasped as if swallowing something. 

“Ah!” he uttered, anxiously. 

“Yes; she used to take life gravely, and 
now . . .” 

“And now, Miss Winter?” 

“She is altered in that respect — you will see.” 

He raised his eyes to her face. His glance was 
as quick as ever, but his eyes did not twinkle 
now; they were grave, and the rapidity of their 
movement, being deprived of brightness, was 
almost furtive. He did not press the question, 
taking her last remark as a piece of advice, as in- 
deed it was intended. Then they sat waiting, 
until the silence became oppressive. Suddenly 
Easton spoke with a return of the quaint narra- 
tive manner which she remembered as character- 
istic. 


276 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 

“One evening,” he said, “as we were steam- 
ing down the Baltic last week — a dull warm 
evening, Tuesday, I guess — I was standing at the 
stern-rail with my arms beneath my chin when 
something fell upon my sleeve. I looked at it 
curiously, for I had not seen such a thing for 
years. It was a tear — most singular! I feel like 
crying now. Miss Winter; I should like to sit 
down on that low chair in the corner there and 
— cry. There are some disappointments that 
come like the disappointments of childhood — 
when it rained on one’s birthday and put a stop 
to the picnic.” 

Miss Winter said nothing. She merely sat in 
her attentive attitude and looked at him with 
sympathetic eyes. 

“It shows,” he continued, presently, “how 
entirely one may be mistaken in one’s own des- 
tiny. I never should have considered myself to 
be the sort of person into whose life a catastrophe 
was intended to break.” 

She still allowed him to continue, and after a 
pause he took advantage of her silence. 

“Some men,” he went on, “expect to have 
other lives upon their conscience — military offi- 
cers, ship-captains, engine-drivers — but their own 
lives are more or less at equal stake, and the risk 
is allowed for in their salary, or is supposed to 
be. I have thirty lives set down on the debit 
side of my account, and some of those lives are 
chips off my own.” 


THREE YEARS AFTER 


277 

“Thirty?” questioned Miss Winter. “There 
Were only eighteen men on board, all told.” 

“Yes; but there were others. I shall tell you 
when Miss Grace comes. It is not a story that 
one cares to relate more often than necessary.” 

They had not long to wait. In a few mo- 
ments they heard the sound of the front-door 
bell. Easton rose from his seat. He did not go 
toward the door, but stood in the middle of the 
room, looking rather breathlessly toward Miss 
Winter. She it was who moved to the door and 
opened it, going out to the head of the stairs to 
meet Helen. 

“Dear,” he heard her say, and her voice was 
smooth and sweet, “Mr. Easton is here; he has 
come back.” 

There was no answer, and a moment later 
Helen Grace stood before him. As he took the 
hand she stretched out to him with an air almost 
of bravado, he saw at once the difference hinted 
at by Miss Winter. It lay in the expression of 
her face, it hovered in her eyes. It was not reck- 
lessness, for educated women are rarely reckless, 
and yet it savoured of defiance — defiance of 
something — perhaps of the years that lay ahead. 
It is to be seen in most ball-rooms, and the faces 
carrying it are usually beautiful. The striking 
characteristic of such women is their impregnabil- 
ity. One cannot get at them. One may quarrel 
with them, make love to them, put them under 
an obligation, and never know them better. 


278 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


They may be sister, friend, even wife, and yet no 
companion. That effect of an immovable barrier 
never allows itself to be forgotten. And if you 
meet such women, though you may be unable to 
define it, that barrier will make itself felt. It was 
placed, riveted, dovetailed, cemented by the Past 
— a Past in which you had no part whatever. 
Such a look usually goes with a perfect dress, 
faultless carriage, and an impeccable savoir-faire. 
And Matthew Mark Easton recognized it at once, 
for he had lived and moved among such women, 
although the feminine influence in his home-life 
had been small. 

“I am glad. Miss Grace,” he said, “that you 
have done me the honour of coming.” 

And she smiled exactly as he expected — the 
hard inscrutable smile, which never betrays, and 
is never infectious. She did not, however, trust 
herself so far as to speak. There was silence for 
a moment — such a silence and such a moment as 
leave their mark upon the entire life. Easton 
breathed hard. He had no doubt at that time 
that he was bringing to each of these women 
news of the man she loved. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SALVAGE 

At last he resolutely broke the silence. 

“It is a long story,” he said. “Will you sit 
down ? ” 

Both obeyed him so mechanically and so rap- 
idly that he had no time to prepare his words, 
and he hesitated. 

“ I — I have to tell you,” he said, “that there is 
no news of the ship. She sailed from London 
three years and seven months ago. She was 
sighted by the whaler Martin on the third of May, 
three years ago, in the Greenland Sea, since when 
there is no word of her. It is the opinion of all 
the experts whom I have consulted that the vessel 
was crushed by ice, possibly a few weeks after 
she was sighted. Her crew and her officers have 
perished.” 

“You give us,” said Miss Winter, “the opin- 
ions of others. What is your own .?” 

“Mine,” he said, after a pause; “mine is the 
same. There is no reason to suppose — there is 
no hope whatever.” 

“ I gave that up two years ago,” Helen stated, 
simply. 

Easton made no comment; but presently he 
drew from his pocket some thin books, which 
279 


2S0 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


he opened, disclosing that they were maps and 
charts. 

“I will,” he said, “explain to you the theory. 
Here where this date is written is the spot where 
the ship was spoken by the whaler. She was 
sailing in this direction. It is probable that she 
passed Spitzbergen in safety, although there was 
ice as far south as this thin blue line; this I have 
since ascertained. After passing Spitzbergen 
they would keep to the north. I take it that at 
this spot they entered the broken ice, and in all 
probability they were beset. There were at the 
beginning of June four separate gales of wind 
from the southwest. During one or other 
of these gales the ship was possibly crushed. 
Whether the crew had time to take to the ice and 
land provisions and boats, or whether it was 
sudden, is a matter of conjecture. But I am 
quite certain that every effort to save life, every- 
thing that was seamanlike and courageous, was 
done. It failed. We have all failed. Never 
was so complete an expedition fitted up. The 
officers were young, but they were good men, 
and for Arctic work young men are a sine qua 
non. What they lacked in experience of ice-work 
was supplied by their subordinate officers, who 
were carefully selected men. I can only add that 
I am truly sorry I did not go with them. I have 
discovered that the doctors were wrong. I could 
have stood the work, for I have done so, and 
harder,” 


SALVAGE 


281 

He paused, bending over the chart, which he 
opened more fully, until it covered the whole 
table. He seemed to be thinking deeply, or per- 
haps choosing his words. The ladies waited for 
him to continue. 

“You see,” he went on, “that all this is con- 
jecture; but I have something else to tell you — 
something which is not a matter of conjecture. 
But first I must ask you to — assure me — that it 
goes no further. It must be a secret sacred to 
ourselves, for it is the secret of two men who — 
well, who know more than we do now.” 

“Of course,” said Miss Winter. 

“Of course,” echoed Helen. 

He went on at once, as if anxious to show his 
perfect reliance in their discretion. 

“This expedition,” he said, “was not de- 
spatched to discover the Northeast passage. It 
had quite another purpose, and I have deter- 
mined that in justice to my two friends you must 
be told. But Admiral Grace must not know. 
There is a political side to the question which 
would render his position untenable if he knew. 
At present the history of this generation is not yet 
dry — it is like a freshly-written page, and one 
cannot yet determine what will stand out upon 
it when all the writing is equally developed. But 
there is a huge blot, which will come out very 
blackly in the hereafter. When this century is 
history all the world will wonder why Europe 
was so blind to the internal condition of its 


282 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


greatest country. I mean Russia. It is not far 
from England, and yet we know more of Russia 
over in America than you do here. It is a long 
story, and we are only at the beginning of it yet; 
but there can only be one end. You have per- 
haps heard of the Nihilists, and you possibly 
judge them by their name. You possibly think 
that they are atheists, iconoclasts, miscreants. 
They are none of these things. They are merely 
a political party. They are a party of men 
fighting the bravest uphill fight that has been 
attempted. Of course there is an extreme party, 
the Terrorists, who, driven to despair by heartless 
cruelty, thirsting for revenge, or blindly impatient 
at the slowness of their progress, resort to violent 
measures. But the Nihilists must no more be 
judged from the Terrorist examples than your 
English Liberals must be confounded with Radi- 
cals.” 

Easton had left the table where the charts were 
spread. As he spoke he moved from side to 
side of the hearth-rug, dragging his feet through 
the worn fur. He warmed to his work as he 
pleaded the cause for which he had laboured so 
hard, and it must be remembered that his diction 
was quick, almost to breathlessness, — the rapid 
speech of an orator, which is hardly recognizable 
when set down in sober black and white. 

“These men,” he continued, “have received 
singularly little help from other countries, which 
is accounted for by the fact that the suppression 


SALVAGE 


283 

of news in Russia is an art. It is so difficult to 
learn the truth that most people are content with 
the falsehoods disseminated by the Government. 
But it is a singular fact that all who have studied 
the question, all who have lived in Russia and 
know anything whatever of the country, sym- 
pathize fully with the Nihilists. The contest is 
quite one-sided — between intellect and reckless 
courage on the one hand, and brutal unreasoning 
despotism on the other.” 

He paused for a moment, and then went on in 
a humbler tone, as if deprecating the introduc- 
tion of his own personality into this great ques- 
tion. 

“I,” he said, “have given half my life to this 
question, and Tyars — he knew a lot about it. 
Together we worked out a scheme for aiding the 
escape of a number of the most gifted Nihilists — 
men and women — who had been exiled to 
Siberia, who were dragging out a miserable 
felon’s existence at the mines for no other crime 
than the love of their own country. Our inten- 
tion was not political, it was humane. We did 
not wish to rescue the Nihilists, but the indi- 
viduals, that they might live in comparative hap- 
piness in America. Tyars and I clubbed together 
and supplied the funds. I was debarred from 
going — forbidden by the doctors — please never 
forget that. But Tyars was the best man for the 
purpose to be found anywhere, and his subordi- 
nate officer, Oswin Grace, was even better than 


284 PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


Tyars in his position. A rendezvous was fixed 
at the mouth of the Yana river — here on the map 
— and a date was named. Three Russians were 
despatched from London to aid in the escape. 
They did their share. The party arrived at the 
spot fixed, but the ship — the y4rgo — never reached 
them. 1 have been there. I have seen the dead 
bodies of nine men — one of whom, Sergius 
Pavloski, I knew — lying there. They are waiting 
for the great Assize, when judgment shall be 
given. I was quite alone, for I expected to find 
something, and so no one knows. The secret is 
quite safe, for the keenest official in Siberia would 
never connect the attempted escape of a number 
of Nihilists with the despatch of a private Eng- 
lish Arctic expedition, even if the bodies are ever 
found. There were no records — I searched.” 

He stopped somewhat suddenly, with a jerk, 
as a man stops in the narration of something 
which has left an ineffaceable pain in his life. 
After a little pause he returned to the table and 
slowly folded the ragged maps. The manner in 
which he did so betrayed an intimate knowledge 
of each frayed corner; but the movements of his 
fingers were stiff and awkward. There was a 
suggestion of consciousness in his every action; 
his manner was almost that of a cripple attempt- 
ing to conceal his deformity. Helen was watch- 
ing him. 

''And you,” she inquired gently; "you have 
endured great hardships ? ” 


SALVAGE 285 

He folded the maps and placed them in the 
breast-pocket of his coat. 

'‘Yes,” he answered, without meeting her 
eyes, “ I have had a bad time of it.” 

They waited, but he said nothing more. That 
was the history of the last two years. Presently 
Helen Grace rose to go. She appeared singularly 
careless of detail. Part of the news she had 
learnt was old, the remainder was too fresh to 
comment upon. She kissed Miss Winter, shook 
hands with Matthew Mark Easton, and quickly 
left the room. Easton did not sit down again. 
He walked to the window, and standing there 
waited till Helen Grace had left the house, then 
he watched her as she crossed the road. 

“These English ladies,” he said, reflecting 
aloud, “ are wonderful. They are like very fine 
steel.” 

When he turned he found Miss Winter standing 
beside the empty fireplace. Her attitude was 
scarcely an invitation for him to prolong his visit, 
such as might have been conveyed by the re- 
sumption of a seat. 

“That,” he said, buttoning his coat over the 
maps, “is why I did not go farther than the 
Yana river.” 

She smiled a little wearily. 

“ It was a wild enterprise,” she said. 

“ I should like to try it again.” 

“Then it was not impossible.?” 

“No,” he answered, “it was not impossible.” 


286 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


She reflected for some moments. 

“ Then why did it not succeed F'' 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

There is one obstacle,” he answered at length, 
choosing his words with an unusual deliberation, 
“mentioned casually after others in bills of 
lading, policies of insurance, and other maritime 
documents — ‘the hand of God.’ I surmise this 
was that Hand . . . and I admit that it is 
heavy.” 

“I always felt,” said Miss Winter, musingly, 
“that something was being concealed from us.” 

“At one time I thought you knew all about 
it.” 

Miss Winter turned and looked at him in sur- 
prise. 

“You once warned us against the Russian 
minister.” 

She thought for some moments, recalling the 
incident. 

“Yes,” she said at length, “1 remember. It 
was the merest accident. I suspected nothing.” 

“ Concealment,” pleaded the American, “was 
absolutely necessary. It made no difference to 
the expedition, neither added to the danger nor 
detracted from it. But I did not want Miss 
Grace and yourself to think that these two men 
had thrown away their lives in attempting such a 
futile achievement as the Northeast passage. 
They were better men than that.” 

She smiled a little wearily. 


SALVAGE 


287 

“No one will ever suspect,” she said; “for 
even now that you have told me the story I can 
scarcely realize that it is true. It sounds like 
some tale of bygone days; and yet we have a 
living proof that it is all true, that it has all hap- 
pened.” 

“ Helen Grace . . .” he suggested. 

She nodded her head. 

“ Of course you knew.” 

“Yes,” he answered, briefly. 

“ And did you know about him 

He did not reply at once, but glanced at her 
keenly. 

“I knew that he loved her,” was the answer. 

She had never resumed her seat, and he took 
her attitude in the light of a dismissal. He made 
a little movement and mechanically examined the 
lining of his hat. 

“Are you going to stay in England?” she 
asked. 

“No;” and he offered her his hand; “I am 
going back to America for some years, at all 
events.” 

They shook hands and he moved toward the 
door. 

“When you come back to England,” she said, 
in rather a faint voice, “will you come and see 
me?” 

He turned sharply. 

“Do you mean that. Miss Winter?” 

“Yes.” 


288 


PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES 


His quick dancing glance was flitting over her 
whole person. 

*‘If I do come,” he said, with a sudden relapse 
into Americanism, “ I surmise it will be to tell 
you something else — something I thought I never 
should tell you.” 

She stood quite still and never raised her eyes. 

Do you still mean it ? ” 

She gave a little nod. The door-handle rattled 
in his grasp, as if his hand were unsteady. 

“I thought,” he said, slowly, “that it was 
Oswin Grace.” 

“No.” 

“Never.?” he inquired, sharply. 

“Never.” 

“Then I stay in England.” 

And he closed the door again. 


THE END. 








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